


Odds and Ends

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Daemon Prompto Argentum, Dogs, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Torture, Loss, M/M, MT!Prompto, Nightmares, Prompto Proves Himself, Spiders, Training, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:00:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 28,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11685525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Four guys, a car, and a whole pile of unrelated adventures.Most recent drabble:“Here,” says Noct again. “Lay down on my lap.”Prompto feels his face start to go hot, a slow creeping sensation that starts in his cheeks and burns outward. The way Noct says it, all casual affection, makes the butterflies in Prompto’s stomach feel more like a flock of sparrows.





	1. Obstacles

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I should probably post my Tumblr drabbles here. Thanks again to everyone who threw a prompt my way! 
> 
> If you want to come check out my Tumblr, it's [here](http://asidian.tumblr.com). I open up for drabbles periodically, when I hit certain follower count milestones. :)
> 
> This request was: "Gladio having no idea whether to be mad or proud when Prompto is better at some combat-related thing than him."

The whole courtyard's been converted into an obstacle course, and it's one hell of a sight.

There are tires strewn out on the ground to run through, and a climbing net, and a crawl tunnel. Targets parade in twos, with rings of red and white and red again. Gladio hates those targets. They take a good two minutes off his run time.

Cor's standing in front of the row of new recruits, stern and no-nonsense.

And Prompto? Prompto looks like he's about to pass out.

Gladio's seen that look before – wide-eyed and jittery, about half a minute from hyperventilating. But when Cor says, "On your marks," he bows his head and gets ready to go.

"Get set," says Cor.

He's gonna give the kid a heart attack if he doesn't let them hurry up and start.

"Go," says Cor.

The new recruits are off like the crack of a whip. And Prompto – Prompto stumbles at the starting line, tripping over his own two feet.

Gladio groans – covers his eyes. This is going to be a disaster.

But when he takes his hand away, it's to see that Prompto's recovered. He's made it past the initial sprint, and then through the tires evenly paced across the ground. He launches himself up the net in a frantic scramble of limbs, and Gladio's waiting for the moment when he falls through, or his arm strength gives out and he can't quite haul himself up and over.

It never comes.

He throws himself down off the top of the net in a frankly ungraceful maneuver that should, by rights, have broken his ankle.

But the kid's _fast_ , and he's not slowing down. He slides straight into the tunnel on his hands and knees, and – shit, is he in the lead? When the hell did that happen?

Without realizing he means to, Gladio circles around to get a better look at the targets.

He's got a front-row seat when Prom hauls himself out the far end and gets started – not with a sword, or a lance, or even throwing knives, like he was considering briefly. He summons an Astrals-be-merciful _gun_ , and Gladio just has time to wonder when that became standard Crownsguard issue. Then Prompto's shooting with it, and Gladio watches the holes show up in the center of those circles: six of them, all dead bullseyes.

The gun fades out in a glittering spray of blue light. Before it's even gone, Prompto's hauling ass across the finish line, breathing like he's half-drowned. His hair's a bedraggled, sweaty mess.

"Three minutes, thirteen seconds," says Cor.

And Gladio – Gladio doesn't know whether he's proud, or pissed that the kid beat his best record on the first damn try.


	2. The One That Got Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was: "Noct / the one that got away."

"Dude," says Prompto. "You've got to give it a rest."

Noct doesn't say anything. His lips are pressed tight together; the cap shades his eyes, casting his face in ominous shadow. A muscle twitches in his jaw. His eyes are red and bleary with exhaustion.

"Don't you start hallucinating if you stay up too long?" Prompto says. "Cause you've been at this for like two days. No joke. We're going on 51 hours, here."

"You didn't see it," says Noct. "It was bigger than I am."

"Well, yeah," says Prompto. "Okay. But it's not going anywhere, right? You can go take a nap and come back. It's not like it can leave the lake."

Noct's hand is still on the reel, determined. 

There's no bite. 

There hasn't been a bite for hours. He knows damn well he hasn't fished the place dry, though. There's at least one monster down there, still, waiting for him to catch it.

"What if there's a fish emergency broadcast system?" says Prompto.

That's enough to drag Noct's attention from the surface of the water, now a glimmering orange streak in the setting sun.

"What?" he says, frowning at Prompto. Maybe he _is_ starting to hallucinate. He could have sworn Prompto just said –

"You know," says Prompto. "Like, a fish goes missing, and they all send out a red alert? Caution, do not approach? Those shiny lures are not your friends?"

Okay, not a hallucination. Just his best friend being weird. Noct snorts and turns back toward the lake.

"Yeah, right," he says.

"I dunno," says Prompto. "That fish isn't showing, buddy. You got a better reason?"

Noct doesn't say anything in reply. He casts again – starts to reel.

Prompto's quiet for all of maybe a minute and a half. Then he says, "Iggy's making that rice bowl you like for dinner."

The noise Noct's stomach makes is frankly kind of embarrassing. He says, "So?"

"So," says Prompto. "Just highlighting it as a point of interest. Since you've been camped out on the dock, living on protein bars. And probably like raw fish and lake seaweed."

Noct rolls his eyes. He's been living on protein bars _and_ garula jerky. It's practically all of the food groups. "Lakeweed," he corrects, absently, and tips the rod back to cast again.

"Dude," says Prompto. "That's what you're gonna argue? Fine, whatever. I'm telling Iggy you said I could have your rice bowl."

"What?" says Noct. "Hey!"

He half turns – hesitates. Flicks his wrist, and the fishing pole disappears into the ether, stored in a mysterious place of magic alongside the weapons of kings.

"Prompto – wait up!"


	3. Get Well Soon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was: "Prompto is really sick and one/all of the others is/are taking care of him."

"I'm dead," says Prompto. 

He's not looking great, that's for sure. He's stretched out in his bed like a wilted flower, hair limp and unwashed, skin sickly pale except for the spots of high color in his cheeks. His eyes are too bright – kind of glazed – and he looks about three minutes from passing back out again. 

"You're not dead," says Noct. "The dead can't talk."

Prompto fixes him with a sulky look. "Says who? I'm totally a restless spirit. Gimme some chains, dude. I'll rattle them like a pro."

"Okay," says Noct. "Either the fever's back up, or we really need to lay off the horror games."

"But I like shooting ghosts," says Prompto. He pauses – frowns – says, quite distinctly: "Is it cannibalism if I shoot ghosts while I _am_ a ghost?"

Noct reaches out to press a hand to his forehead – winces at the heat baking off him. "Fever it is," he says.

He reaches over to the bedside table for the bottle of pills he brought by yesterday – twists the cap off and shakes a couple out into his palm. Noct hands them over with a cup of water. "Okay, buddy. Time for the next round."

Prompto takes the pills and gulps some of the water. He starts to put the cup down and then thinks better of it – finishes off the rest. He looks at it blankly when it's gone. "M'thirsty," he says, like it's just occurred to him.

"Hungry, too, I hope," says a voice from the doorway, and Noct glances up to see that Ignis is standing there, tray in his hands. Balanced carefully on it is a bowl of soup, a few packs of fancy crackers, a neatly folded cloth napkin, and a gleaming bright spoon. Noct knows for a fact that Prompto doesn't own cloth napkins, and he only ever has the store brand crackers that go stale in about three days.

He feels a smile tug at his lips – wonders exactly how much Ignis packed when Noct texted him earlier today: "prom's sick. send help."

Help, apparently, consists of himself, and the ingredients to cook in Prom's kitchen, and Gladio, who trails in behind him, three kitchen chairs in tow. He sets them out by the bed, and he settles into one; it creaks alarmingly under his weight.

"You cooked?" says Prompto, eyes going bright with something that has nothing to do with the fever. "Man, being dead's totally worth it." 

It's a struggle to get the pillows arranged and Prom semi-upright, but they manage; then Ignis sets the tray on his lap.

Prompto's just picking up the spoon when a thought seems to strike him. "Hey," he says. "What about you guys?"

"I had the foresight to make enough for all of us," says Ignis. 

As though it's his permission to take leave, he heads out of the room to fetch three more bowls – presses one each into Gladio and Noct's hands.

They eat dinner like that, all four of them crammed into Prompto's tiny room. 

Prom's lively for a little while – energetic, the way he always gets when someone pays attention to him. It can't last long, though. He's dragging before he's halfway through the soup, and he starts to nod off between bites.

"Kid's gonna faceplant straight into the bowl," says Gladio.

"Hm," says Ignis.

He must think it's likely, though. He takes the tray back and eases the spoon out of Prompto's lax fingers. 

Prompto doesn't stir. His head's tipped back against the pillows, lips slightly parted, sleeping the sleep of the truly exhausted.

"Noct," says Ignis. "If you would?"

"Yeah," says Noct. "Sure."

Prompto lets himself be shifted into a more comfortable position like a sleeping child, pliant and unaware – but when Noct lets go, he makes a small, distressed noise at the back of his throat.

"Hey," says Noct. "Don't worry." He pulls the blankets up to Prompto's shoulders. "I'm not going anywhere."


	4. Real

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was for: "Prompto getting the all TLC he deserves after being rescued by the guys. Lots of assurances that this is real and he's safe and loved."

Ardyn's voice is low and insinuating – casual and almost amiable. "Oh, come now," he says. "If they were going to retrieve you, surely they would have made an appearance already."

They _have_ made an appearance already, and Ardyn damn well knows it.

He's taken each of their faces in turn: Noct, eyes bright, Prompto's name frantic on his lips. Gladio, charging in like an enraged behemoth, promising retribution. Ignis, intent and calm, only the crease of his brow and the slight tremble of his hands giving away the concern.

Prompto's seen it all. He's seen them come, one at a time, to free him from this place. He's seen them melt away to leave only Ardyn – only the pain that his hands bring and cruel twist of his lips.

Ardyn leans in. He touches the line of Prompto's jaw, proprietary and condescending. "Perhaps they've decided you're just not worth the trouble," he says into Prompto's ear, softly, like he's sharing a secret.

Prompto wakes all at once – sits bolt upright with a gasp.

His cheeks are wet, and his chest is heaving, but he just can't seem to get enough air.

When Noct says, "Prompto?" he can't respond.

When Noct sits down on the cot beside him, slides an arm around him and says, "Hey. Breathe, Prom. You're okay," Prompto just cries harder.

He's not okay. He's not.

He feels like he's breaking. If Noct's face melts away and it's Ardyn underneath again, he's going to lose his godsdamned mind.

"Say something," he manages to gasp. "All of you. Say – I need to know it's you."

There's a brief pause – as the words sink in, most likely, and the implications that go with them.

Ignis catches on first. He sets a gentle hand on the crown of Prompto's head, and he says, "The first time I met you, Noct phoned me, absolutely frantic, because your attempt at baking a cake nearly burned down his apartment."

It's like a spell: Prompto feels the steel bands around his chest ease, just slightly.

Gladio's been standing watch by the door, but he ambles over now. He's still not looking, like tears are something contagious that he might catch from coming too close. He says, "When the photographer we got for Iris' thirteenth birthday party bailed at the last minute, you stepped in and covered it."

Prompto scrubs at his cheeks. Gods, why does his throat still ache?

Noct says, "Senior year you stayed the night one time. Well, a lot of times. But this time, I woke up and you had on the biggest shit-eating grin I ever saw. You'd waited till I fell asleep, then stayed up all night beating my high score in every shooting game I own."

Prompto chokes on the laugh in his throat. It comes out kind of strangled. "Dude," he manages. "You loved it. You wouldn't even know what to do without me."

He's expecting more teasing. He's expecting some flippant response. He isn't expecting Noct to pull back, just enough so that he can take in Prompto's expression. His eyes are intent – searching. "You're right," he says. "I wouldn't."

"None of us would, I'm afraid," says Ignis. "We were rather at a loss without you, in Tenebrae."

Gladio's silent for a moment longer. At last he adds, "Wasn't really the same without you."

They're real. All of them are.

Thank all the Astrals, they're real.

Noct's pressed up against his side, warm and solid. Ignis still has a hand on his head, calming and steadying. Gladio's bulk blocks the door from view – putting himself, quite literally, between Prompto and the threat that Ardyn poses.

"Thanks, guys," Prompto manages, voice small and wavering, and he's never meant anything more in his whole life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I periodically open up for drabble prompts [on my Tumblr](http://asidian.tumblr.com). If you're interested in reading about these dumb boys and their tragic roadtrip, come give me a follow. :)


	5. Of Late Nights and Early Mornings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was: "Prompto and Noct stay up late playing video games much to Ignis's dismay and hatred."

Ignis slides the key into Noct’s door at 6 am sharp, and he already knows how the morning will play out.

He’ll go straight to Noct’s bedroom and open the door, then pull back the covers. It won’t be enough to wake him, but it will be enough to start the incremental process that comprises the crown prince’s morning routine.

He’ll open the curtains to let in the light, then move Noct’s pillow out of reach when he attempts to bury his head.

After that, Ignis will pick up a bit in the living room before he starts the waffles. The smell drifting in through the open doorway sometimes helps to coax Noct out of bed, and if he slips blueberries into the batter, His Highness will have eaten fruit before noon.

If the smell doesn’t rouse him, Ignis will return to the bedroom for some hands-on encouragement. After Noct’s washed his face and slid into his chair, still half-awake, Ignis will present him with a plate of waffles and a cup of extra-strong coffee, then brief him on the meeting he’s scheduled for at 9 o'clock.

It’s a very good plan.

It’s thrown entirely off the rails when he opens the apartment door and hears noises coming from the living room.

Ignis thinks of a half-dozen possible explanations in the fifteen seconds it takes him to approach the source of the sounds. Most of them are pessimistic; one includes the possibility of kidnappers, caught in the act of absconding with the crown prince.

Not a one of them includes Noct sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of his couch with a game controller in his hands, which is what he finds.

Prompto is there, too, and the both of them are bleary-eyed but grinning. The proof of their evening is strewn about on the floor: two empty bags of chips; a pack of playing cards that no one has bothered to put away; three cans of soda and a half-empty cup of something that looks like iced tea. They’ve dragged the bedding from Noct’s room out to pile it on the floor, creating a sort of makeshift nest. On the screen before them, four tiny figures struggle against a massive dragon.

Noct’s gaze doesn’t even leave the television. “Morning, Specs.”

Prompto’s eyes flicker his way. He has the grace to look guilty, at least. “Uh,” he says. “Hi, Ignis.”

“Good morning,” says Ignis, crisply. “Shall I make extra coffee?” He checks the time on his phone. “We’ll need to be walking out the door in one hour and forty-five minutes, if we hope to make your 9 o'clock engagement, Highness.”

Noct grimaces. This time, he glances Ignis’ way. “That was today?”

Ignis resists the urge to say something sharper. “Yes." 

"Well,” says Prompto, with a forced little laugh. “Look at that. There goes my last life. Guess I’ll leave you guys to it, huh?”

When he goes to stand, Noct catches at his arm. He says something that Ignis can’t hear under the music from the video game. On screen, the last of the men, the one with the sword, goes down.

GAME OVER, says the television.

“Prom’s gonna stay for breakfast,” says Noct, though the look on Prompto’s face says, very clearly, that he did not in fact agree to stay for breakfast.

“No, it’s cool,” says Prompto. “Really. Lemme get out of your hair." He scoops up his phone, cramming it into his pocket, and rises from the nest of blankets.

Noct has a look on his face now, some strange amalgam of distressed and pleading. He fixes it on Ignis as Prompto makes for the door.

Ignis sighs. He says, "I was planning to make waffles. You’re fond of blueberries, aren’t you, Prompto?”

Prompto hesitates in the doorway. He glances back at Noct, and then at Ignis, as though he’s searching for something. He says, “I could make the coffee? Or set the table or something.”

“Thank you,” says Ignis. “That would be much appreciated.”

It’s terribly unfair, Ignis reflects. It’s almost impossible to stay annoyed, with the force of both their smiles fixed on him that way.


	6. Summer Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was: "I have a prompt(o) for you :) Iggy/Prompto. Eating popsicles one hot afternoon in Lestallum. Prompto is thirsty :)"

It's the hottest Prompto can ever remember being, and that's saying a lot.

That includes the desert outside Hammerhead, with its dry dust and blazing sun. It includes the wetlands of Duscae, with the sticky, muggy heat and buzzing insects. It includes Mt. Ravatogh, where he stood on the flaming remnants of cooling lava to snap a picture.

…okay, fine, maybe not Mt. Ravatogh. But it's a pretty close call.

Lestallum's practically melting today. The ground's hazy with heat, and the poor dogs and cats are slumped in the shade like it's a raft and their ship's going down. Noct and Gladio had the right idea, staying at the hotel where there's AC.

Prompto's ready to lie down on the pavement and never move again, only he's pretty sure that's a terrible idea, because the street's probably hot enough to cook an egg right now.  It's probably hot enough to cook twenty eggs. You could open up a street side diner and make a living serving eggs.

Thank the gods for ice pops. They've got some in the little cooler in the shop by the gas station, and Prompto's never been happier to give anyone his money than when he hands twenty gil over to the dude behind the counter.

He's out the door like a bullet from one of his guns – jogs the twenty-odd feet over to where Iggy's waiting for him on the curb. He's still looking prim and proper, one hand holding onto the bag of market goods that was enough to lure them out into the heat. How the man isn't sweating through his striped button-up is a mystery Prompto may never solve, but hell if he's not perfectly put together, not so much as a strand of hair out of place.

"Here you go," says Prompto, and presses one of the ice pops into Ignis' hand. It's strawberry-cherry-pineapple, the colors mixing together in a swirl, and Prompto says, "Sorry, dude. They didn't have plain strawberry. Hope it doesn't fight with the other flavors."

"This will suffice," says Ignis. "Thank you, Prompto."

Prompto's already peeling the wrapper off his own – blue and white, marked with the intriguing but unhelpful words "mystery flavor" – and chucking the plastic onto one of curbside piles that serve as the trash cans in Lestallum.

He bites into it, chews a few times, thoughtfully, and turns to Ignis. "Tastes kinda like soda," he says, and that's all he says, because the rest of the words fall straight out his ear and onto the street, where they bake to death beside all those hypothetical eggs.

Ice pops, Prompto thinks, were a bad idea. A terrible idea. The worst idea he's ever had.

He's never seen Ignis eat an ice pop before, and that, it turns out, is probably going to be his undoing. When they do the autopsy, that's going to be the cause of death.

Ignis has his lips closed around the very tip of the cold confection, giving it the lightest of licks to test the flavor. His expression is intent, and his lips are already starting to go red with the cold, and – and Prompto needs to look away right the hell now.

With effort, he wrenches his gaze aside.

"Mine," Ignis puts in, peering at the wrapper, "tastes nothing like strawberry, cherry, _or_ pineapple."

"Ah, yeah," Prompto manages, and takes another bite out of his. "Not exactly all-natural flavors. You could probably do way better."

Ignis hums thoughtfully. "Did I never make you ice cream, before we left Insomnia?"

"You make ice cream?" says Prompto.

He looks up again, and dammit, he should have known better. Ignis has bent his head to take more of the ice pop into his mouth. When he pulls his lips back, the top half is smooth and slick, the texture markedly different where his mouth has been.

Prompto swallows. He can't quite seem to tear his eyes away.

Suddenly, his pants are way, way too tight. Suddenly, his face is hot, and he's pretty sure it's got nothing to do with sunburn.

"It's rather difficult without the proper equipment," says Ignis. "Though I suppose if our hotel has a refrigerator with a freezer attached, we could try a more simplistic method."

Ignis slips the ice pop back between his lips – draws on it thoughtfully, then pops it out to add: "Though the flavor options would be a touch limited."

"Dude," says Prompto. "You can make toast look like a gourmet meal. I have faith."

The smile he gets in return is warm, and subtle, and does funny things to Prompto's stomach. He takes another bite of his ice pop – crunches it and turns away from Ignis, back toward the hotel. "Guess, uh. Guess we should go see if we've got a mini fridge then, yeah?"

"Is there a rush?" says Ignis. "Perhaps we can see whether the market has the milk we'll need, first."

Yeah, there's a rush. The rush is getting to put more than five feet between himself and the sexiest man he's ever met, who just so happens to be doing obscene things to a popsicle. If they stay this close, Prompto's going to give himself away for sure. By the end of this trip, Ignis will know, in no uncertain terms, that he's been nurturing a private little crush since, oh, just about forever now.

But his traitorous mouth says, "No rush," and his traitorous eyes slide over to watch as Ignis sucks thoughtfully on the tip again, and he thinks, quite distinctly: sweet Astrals, ice pops are the best invention known to man. Or maybe the worst.

For the life of him, Prompto can't figure out which.


	7. Creepy Crawlies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Prompt on this one was: "both Noctis and prompto don't like bugs so who kills the spiders/icky things when one slithers into their home or tent or hotel room? :3"

The shriek echoes through the bathroom.

It's the kind you hear in horror movies when someone's getting stabbed, high and shrill and panicked. Noct scrabbles for the tap to turn the shower off and stands, dripping, ears straining. "Prompto?" he calls.

"Noct!" comes the plaintive cry from the main room of the hotel. "Noct, help!"

He barely pauses to grab the towel off the rack and sling it around his hips. Then he's charging out into the main room, eyes flashing, half expecting Imperial soldiers to've broken down the door. Instead he finds Prompto up on one of the chairs, staring at the floor like he's a kid playing don't touch the lava.

"What?" says Noct. "What's wrong?"

Noct's dripping all over the hotel carpet. His hair's sticking to the back of his neck.

Prompto raises a trembling finger and points. "Dude," he says. "Look out! It's heading right for you!"

Noct follows the invisible line that Prompto's finger draws.

Then he yelps, and starts, and scrambles backward so fast he almost drops the towel, because there on the floor is a spider. Not just any spider: the biggest damn spider he's ever seen. If there were spider shows, this one would win judge's choice. Noct's seen rodents that would be proud to be the same size as this spider.

He doesn't hesitate. He vaults up onto the bed, to get clear of the floor. "How the hell did that thing even get in?" he demands.

"What if it's been here all along?" says Prompto, voice gone hoarse with terror. "What if this is its lair?"

Noct considers the spider. It's making a lazy path toward the wall now.

"It's got to go," he decides. "No way I'm sleeping with that thing in the room."

"Oh, thank gods," says Prompto. "Go get him, Noct. I'll write an ode to your bravery if it bites your hand off."

"Ha," says Noct. "Yeah, right. It's all you, buddy."

"Me?" squeaks Prompto.

"You're my Crownsguard, aren't you? So protect me."

Prompto stares at the spider. As though it knows it's being talked about, it turns slowly toward the chair where Prompto still perches. He swivels and starts trying to wrench the window open. "I'll go get Ignis and Gladio. Hang in there, dude, I'll be back!"

Suddenly, the next two months appears in Noct's mind with crystal clarity: every single camp site, filled with Gladio's smug couldn't-squish-a-spider smirk and Ignis' indulgent, mostly amused smile. "The hell you will!" says Noct. "We'll never hear the end of it."

Prompto freezes, presumably as he realizes Noct's right. He gives up on the now half-open window and turns back around.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I'm gonna need a weapon."

"You want to shoot it?" says Noct, incredulous.

"I mean, it's big," says Prompto. "But it's not that big."

He seems to think for a moment. Then his whole face lights up, the way it does when he has a terrible idea. All of a sudden, the shimmering blue magic of the Armiger surrounds him, and when it fades, he's not holding a gun. He's holding one of Ignis' spears.

"Okay," says Prompto. "I got this. Look at me go."

He turns it around carefully in his hands, until he's holding the shaft by the blade end. Then he reaches out, safely atop his perch, and the battle commences.

Prompto brings the butt end of the spear down, hard, on the ground next to the spider. It's meant to be a one-hit triumph, but he misses. Maybe it's the angle; maybe it's the unfamiliar weight. But the spider comes out of it completely unscathed, and before Prompto can lift Ignis' weapon to try again, the thing's scrabbling up the shaft with eight legs and pure, deadly intent.

Prompto yelps and jerks backward. The spear dissolves into crystalline shards of blue.

The spider goes with it.

There's a moment of silence while they both stare, considering this turn of events. Then Prompto says, carefully, "Is it in the Armiger?"

Noct turns his attention inward, to that strange and mysterious place where he stores the weapons of kings. And there, among the blade of his forebears, he senses it: a small, many-legged presence.

"Yeah," says Noct.

Prompto fidgets. "So now what?"

"Now," says Noct, "I finish my shower. And we never breathe a word of this to Ignis or Gladio."


	8. A Soothing Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> "If you're still taking prompts, I'd really love to see Prompto suffering from nightmares after the events of "[Memories of the Past](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10638324/chapters/23536290)", and Ignis recalling the calming effect that hair petting had on child Prompto. Poor Prom is too exhausted to be embarrassed, though there's nothing to worry about as Ignis cares so much for his wellbeing. It's really, really soothing. (Those tender, bittersweet moments between the two just slayed me, I love that fic so much!)"

It's been scarcely a week, but already most of the obvious signs have faded.

Prompto no longer starts when someone approaches without warning from behind. At meals, he's stopped taking seconds and thirds, just to prove that he can. His aimless chatter has returned: frequent, and optimistic, and full of humor.

Perhaps Gladio and Noctis are taken in by the thin veneer of normality.

Ignis, however, does not have that luxury. By habit, he wakes early, to drink his first cup of coffee in peace and begin the preparations for breakfast. He sees Prompto's face, unguarded in sleep, twisted with pain and terror, and he knows that, though the physical changes have faded, some lingering ill effects from his brush with the time daemon yet remain.

It cannot be easy, these memories of a past Prompto's struggled so hard to leave behind.

This morning's nightmare, it seems, is particularly unpleasant. Prompto shifts and jerks in his sleeping bag, as though trying to escape some nameless foe. He makes a sound, low in his throat, like a wounded animal. His face is paper-pale in the early morning light, and Ignis can just make out the tears tracking slowly down his cheeks.

All at once, Ignis decides his coffee can wait.

He takes care not to wake Gladio or Noct, moving with careful steps over their sleeping forms until he stands beside Prompto. Then he lowers himself to the tent's floor.

He still remembers the way Prompto felt in his arms, when he was so much smaller. He recalls the way that fragile frame trembled against him, and how readily a gentle touch calmed him into contentment.

Carefully, Ignis reaches out to smooth his fingers through Prompto's hair.

He sets a steady rhythm, the one that became habitual in the few days Prompto was reverted to a younger self. It's the way he would stroke a frightened animal: soft, and gentle, with infinite care.

Perhaps Prompto can feel it, even in sleep. His restless motion stills, and he makes another sound, quieter this time: almost pleased.

Ignis stays that way for perhaps ten minutes, nothing but the feel of Prompto's hair between his fingers and against his palm. He stays until the nightmare, whatever it was, has been soothed away. Then he moves to rise.

Breakfast won't cook itself, after all.

"Iggy?" says a quiet voice beside him.

When he looks, he sees that Prompto's awake, peering up at him with eyes that are still red from crying.

"Yes, Prompto?"

There's a pause that lasts so long Ignis is certain Prompto won't say anything.

Then, finally: "Could you keep doing that? Just for a little bit."

"Of course," says Ignis. "For as long as you like."

Perhaps breakfast can wait, after all.


	9. Waking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt is: "What are Prompto's dreams like post-"[The Way They Were](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9540920/chapters/21573704)"? Nightmares? Anything prophetic? Normal stuff? Nothing? Does Noct help out if one of the first two is the case? Thank you~"

The cells line the hallway, chill and ominous. 

Prompto eyes them as he passes – takes in the tables pushed up against the walls, set with serrated saws and pliers and a half-dozen other things he doesn't want to remember. His heart's in his throat, but he knows: if he can just keep moving, he'll get past this.

He ducks his head, and he keeps walking – for what feels like years, through endless sameness, terror fluttering against the inside of his skull like a moth. Up ahead, finally, he can see the way out. It's a set of double doors, tall and imposing, and Prompto forces himself into a jog, and then a sprint, and then he's pushing them open.

On the other side stands the throne room.

Half the staircase is crumbled, and bodies dangle from the ceiling, in chains.

Noct is seated on the throne, face almost peaceful, skin so pale it looks like candle wax. His eyes are closed, and the Ring of the Lucii glistens on his finger, chill and beautiful. His father's sword is planted straight through his chest, pinning him upright.

"Noct?" says Prompto, voice wavering.

He starts to climb the stairs – feels tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. " _Noct_?"

Noct doesn't answer, of course. 

When he reaches the top, Prompto just looks at him for a moment. Then, carefully, he reaches out to touch Noct's hand.

It's cold.

Whatever small hope remained flickers and fades, and Prompto sinks to his knees beside the throne. Of course he was too late. Of course he never found anything.

Of course this was never going to end any other way.

"Prompto," says a voice, somewhere beside him. 

It sounds a little like Noct, but that can't be right. Noct's dead.

"Prompto," it says again, more urgently.

Something sharp twinges against his arm, and Prompto flinches back – comes awake all at once and flails so hard he falls off the bed.

He stares up at Noct's face, framed by a tangled nest of hair still mussed with sleep, as it peers down at him over a mound of black blankets. All at once, relief sweeps over Prompto like an ocean, and he's sure he's going to drown.

"Dude," he manages, when he thinks he can speak again. "Did you just pinch me?"

"You weren't waking up."

Noct stays where he is, face blank and searching, for a few seconds that seem to last for hours. Then he holds out a hand.

There's a ring on Noct's finger, but it's not the Ring of the Lucii. It matches the one that Prompto wears.

And Noct's hand, when he takes it, is warm. Prompto holds onto it as tight as he can – lets it pull him back into the bed they share.

"Didn't mean to wake you up," Prompto says. He tucks himself up against Noct's side, close enough to feel the heat of him.

"It's cool," says Noct, and slips an arm around his waist. "I'll just make you make the coffee."

Prompto thinks back on waking in shabby hotel rooms, playing dumb games on their phones while Noct complains about coffee that's gone motor-oil thick from sitting too long in the pot.

He smiles against the curve of Noct's shoulder. "Don't I always?"

He feels the press of Noct's lips against his temple, there and then gone again. Noct says, thoughtfully: "You know, I'm kind of the king now. We could probably have someone _bring_ us coffee. Might even taste half-decent."

Prompto reaches out, quite deliberately, and pinches the King of Lucis on the arm. "Sucks to be you, dude. You're stuck with my coffee till the day you die."

He's not expecting his voice to catch like that, on the word die. He's not expecting Noct to draw back, frowning, and search his face.

"Lucky me," Noct says at last. "I've got a lot of shitty coffee left to drink." He reaches up to run his thumb over Prompto's jaw, gently, like he's smoothing out the final shape of a sculpture in clay. 

"Yeah?" says Prompto, over the ache at the back of his throat.

"Yeah," says Noct. "I'm not going anywhere for a long time."


	10. A Time of Rest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This request was for: "H/C after getting Prompto off the cross? (Let's assume they immediately leave Gralea lol)"

The apartment's small, but it's got two beds and a bathroom with water that still runs. 

The gas is out, and so is the power, but there's a backup generator in the building's basement, and the resulting light's enough to keep the daemons at bay. Gladio's taped aluminum foil up over the windows, to keep them hidden from the outside world. They've barricaded the door, and there's some canned food in the cabinets.

It's not perfect. Hell, they're not even out of Niflheim yet.

But at least they're not in _Gralea_ anymore, and Noct's pretty sure they finally threw Ardyn off their trail.

That asshole's got something planned. He's been all but herding them, and like hell Noct's about to make it easy on him.

Noct's sat through too many strategy briefs with Iggy not to know that when your enemy rolls out the red carpet, you don't waltz right in. You pull back, and you regroup, and you find a back entrance.

So here they are, in some snowy city Noct doesn't even know the name of. Here they are, all of them exhausted to their bones, nursing minor injuries that they just don't have the curatives to handle.

Here they are – and however bad it is, Noct's still thanking the Astrals every waking minute, because at least they have Prompto back.

Prom's still pretty shook up, sure. 

Noct can see it in the way he's sitting: shoulders hunched, hands curled in around the cup of tea Noct heated up for him with fire magic. His face looks like he's been through seventeen straight rounds with Cor Leonis, no holds barred, and his arms are all-over bruises.

But he's had what passes for a shower in this place: icy cold tap water, heated in a bucket, plus soap and a wash cloth. He's in fresh clothes, and he slept a couple of hours, curled up in bed with Noct, while Gladio and Iggy stood guard. He's downed a can and a half of some Niff brand chickatrice noodle soup, and he's got a blanket around his shoulders, and the hands around the tea cup aren't trembling quite so much, anymore.

It's not a lot – but at this point, Noct's willing to take whatever he can get.

"Hey," says Noct, and slides into the chair next to him, at the kitchen table. "You doing okay?"

Prompto glances up, dazed and a little distant. "Yeah," he says, voice scratchy. "Way better now."

"You know," says Noct, and then stops. 

Prompto's watching him now – actually focusing – so Noct puts on a smile, something he hopes is reassuring.

"You know," he starts again. "Now that the generator's running, I bet we could charge our phones. It's been, what? A week and a half since you harvested your Zell tree?"

Prompto takes a sip of tea. When he lowers the cup, he's got this funny look on his face, like he wants to smile but he's not quite sure he can. "Admit it, dude. You just need another party member to help you get past the boss in the Crystal Caverns."

Noct reaches over to elbow him, amiably, in the side. "That a yes?"

"Hell yeah, that's a yes," says Prompto.

By the time Gladio and Ignis wake up, they've left the Crystal Caverns far behind, and they're halfway across the Fields of Emerald. 

Ignis tsks and tells them to put their games away and eat some lunch, and they groan like they're in high school again – and just for a minute, Noct knows that everything's going to be okay.


	11. Broken Ties

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was: I've got kind of a bummer prompt if you're into it lol: Prompto's parents actually survived the fall of Insomnia but just never tried to contact him. How would the other three react if they found out? Your call whether Prom knows about it or not :P

They're standing in the market at Lestallum when it happens.

Ignis is at the stall of the spice vendor, weighing out a packet of cumin. Prompto's by his side, chattering idly on about the best methods for levelling up a character in King's Knight. "Grinding's boring," he says. "So the trick is, you wait for the timed hunts. Then you just –"

"You just?" says Ignis, idly.

But Prompto's stopped mid-sentence, and he gives no signs that he means to finish the thought.

When Ignis glances up to see what the matter is, Prompto's gone absolutely sheet white. His face is slack, mouth open, eyes wide and staring. One hand gropes out to find Ignis' arm, and the fingers clench there, grip painfully tight, palm like ice despite the heat of the day.

"That's," says Prompto. "Those are."

His throat works; his face seems to be attempting every expression at once but not quite managing anything decisive.

Ignis follows his gaze across the market. 

At first, he misses them. There's something of a crowd, after all. But then the woman smiles, and the curve of her lips matches the smile in the photograph Prompto always keeps carefully folded in his wallet, and Ignis recognizes them for who they are.

They are an attractive enough couple, middle aged. Their heads are bent together as though sharing a secret. Ignis has never met them in person, but he's heard stories: treasured childhood tales from Prompto, family outings dating a decade and a half ago, before the demands of their careers drew them away from home for longer and longer stretches of time.

Prompto's hand, trembling now, draws away from Ignis' arm. He takes a step toward the man and the woman, and his lips part, like they're forming a silent plea, or perhaps a prayer. Then he calls: "Mom? Dad?"

They don't hear him; the market is too loud.

He starts to move, like a man in a dream. "Mom!" he calls. "Dad!"

This time, they hear. Ignis watches as they glance up from their private conversation. He tracks the expressions as they flicker, there and gone: surprise, and then guilt. Finally, smiles that don't quite reach their eyes. 

"Prompto," says Prompto's mother. "Oh, my gods. What are you doing here?"

Ignis pays the vendor for the cumin, bags it, and turns to follow.

By the time he arrives, Prompto has his arms slung around the both of them. He's crying, though he's trying not to. He's saying, again and again, "I thought you were dead. I thought I was never gonna see you again."

"It's okay, honey," says Prompto's mother, like she's embarrassed, and Ignis notes that the hand she has on her son's back isn't embracing him. It's barely touching him at all.

"I kept calling," says Prompto, and his voice breaks. "I thought – I thought for sure something happened."

"You know how it is," says Prompto's father. "It was an evacuation; we had to leave everything. Damn phone's probably still sitting on the counter."

Ignis' eyes flicker down. He finds the outline of a rectangle, in Prompto's father's front pocket. 

It's not the first time he's felt this icy chip of anger slip into his bloodstream when Prompto's parents are involved, but it's by far the strongest. A wave of distilled ire rushes through him, along with the impulse to pry the boy away from them and take him back to their room at the Leville, where he'll be surrounded by people who adore him.

Instead, Ignis clears his throat. He forces a smile, diplomat-smooth. 

He thinks of what will make Prompto the happiest, and he says, "I'm afraid we won't be in town for long, but perhaps the two of you would like to join us for dinner tonight? I imagine you'd like to do some catching up with your son."

Prompto pulls back. In a sea of false smiles, his is genuine: wobbly and wondering, on a face still wet with tears. "Just like old times, right?"

Very old times. Prompto once confided that when last both his parents had sat down with him for a meal, he'd been seven years old.

"That sounds lovely," says Prompto's mother, as she extracts herself from the hug.

"We would hate to impose, though, if you already have plans," says Prompto's father.

"No imposition at all," says Ignis, and his smile grows a touch sharper at the edges. "Please. I insist."

There is a beat of silence, during which Prompto's parents exchange a pointed look and Prompto, oblivious, wipes at his still-wet face with the back of one forearm.

The silence stretches uncomfortably long, and Ignis has time to think that if they break this boy's heart, he will make it his own personal, private mission to enact suitable retribution.

"Well, then," says Prompto's mother, after far too long a pause. "If you insist."

Prompto's grinning again. His eyes are red and puffy, and the last of the tears still cling to his lashes. 

Thank all the gods, he doesn't seem to have noticed that anything's amiss.


	12. At Your Own Risk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt on this one was: Noctis and Prompto both have colds and hole up in Noct's apartment

The sign on Noct’s bedroom door says “Plague Zone: Enter at Your Own Risk.”

The skull and crossbones drawn beneath it involves shading and a bit of artistic flair, so the odds that Prompto is involved are rather high. The last thing Ignis recalls Noct drawing was a catoblepas, when he was some twelve years of age. Ignis mistook it for a rather ill-proportioned voretooth.

In any case, the sign is written in marker, the lettering a good six inches high. Considering he’s the only one who drops into Noct’s apartment unannounced, he suspects it’s for his benefit.

Ignis pauses in front of the door, considering. Then he lifts his hand and raps with his knuckles, sharply, three times.

There’s some muffled voices on the other side – words he can’t quite make out. Then Noct says: “Specs? That you?”

“Were you expecting someone else?” Ignis asks.

“No,” says Noct. “It’s just –” There is a pause, suspiciously long. “I’m gonna have to take a pass on that meeting tonight, I think.”

A fit of coughing starts then, thick and heavy. Ignis frowns, and reaches for the doorknob. “I’m coming in.”

“No, wait,” says a voice. “You’ll catch it, too.” It’s Prompto voice, but not as he’s ever heard it before. It’s raspy and mostly gone, straining to reach a volume above a whisper.

Ignis ignores him and pushes open the door.

The inside of Noct’s room is an absolute disaster. Tissues fill the trashcan that’s been dragged over to the bedside; they’re beginning to overflow onto the floor. Approximately thirteen cups, some still half-filled with water, stand on every available surface. Folded washcloths drape from the back of the desk chair, dripping disconsolately onto the floor.

And there, curled up in the nest of blankets on the bed, are Noct and Prompto. They look absolutely pathetic, expressions identical pictures of misery, faces flushed and noses raw from sneezing.

“I got him sick,” says Noct, by way of explanation.

Ignis just stares back at them for a moment, silent and unmoving.

“His parents weren’t at home,” says Noct. “I told him he could crash here.”

Ignis keeps staring.

“Sorry,” says Prompto, in that rough, barely-there voice. “We, uh. We kind of made a mess.“

He actually looks guilty. They both do, though Noct does a better job of disguising it.

Ignis takes a careful sigh in and lets it out. He adjusts his glasses. He says, "I’ll see to your schedule, Noct. In the meantime, shall I fix some soup for lunch?”


	13. Competitive Streak

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was: "The Bros having a kissing contest over who can kiss the most of Prompto’s freckles at the same time. They smooch the same ones on purpose, of course having to reclaim it from the others in a fit of laughs and lavishing their adorably flustered friend with the affections he deserves."

"You guys remember that Paper Scissors Rock is a thing, right?" says Prompto. His face is slowly starting to turn red. It's kind of cute.

"Yup," says Noct, noncommittal.

"And, like. Drawing straws?" The blush has reached his ears.

"Indeed," says Ignis, smoothly.

"Pulling numbers from a hat?" Prompto tries.

"Don't have a hat," says Gladio. "Guess we're gonna have to improvise."

Prompto covers up his face with both hands – and really, that's not going to work at all.

"Hey," says Noct. "How are we supposed to start if you hide them?"

"Think of it as challenge mode," says Prompto, words somewhat muffled by his hands.

"You heard the man," Ignis says, deadpan. "Challenge mode commenced. Are we all in agreement as to the rules?"

They're ridiculous rules. Kissing a freckle nets one point. Someone kissing _over_ a freckle you've already kissed loses the point. Whoever gets the most points in three minutes wins the last slice of Iggy's orange cake. 

It's going to be absolute chaos, to say nothing of how impossible it'll be to actually keep track of the score.

Noct can't wait.

"Got it," says Noct.

"Good to go," says Gladio.

"Are you guys seriously doing this?" says Prompto.

"On the count of three," says Ignis, level and even. "One. Two."

Noct's holding his breath. Prompto peeks out between his fingers.

"Three," says Ignis, and as one, they all lunge.

Noct goes for the shoulders, because they're uncovered. Gods know Prom's got enough freckles there; they dust his skin like stars in the night sky. He gets through five – sees that Gladio's working through the smattering across his nose, and Ignis is pressing his lips against the few above Prompto's eyebrows.

Six, seven, eight – he's in the lead, he's pretty sure, but Gladio shoves him aside and starts in on the place where Noct just had his lips.

"Move it or lose it, princess," says Gladio. 

Noct makes an annoyed sort of _tch_ sound in his throat. "C'mon, Prom," says Noct, and reaches up to tug gently at Prompto's wrist. "Lemme in. Gladio's cheating."

Above his fingers, Prompto's eyes are bright with laughter. His smile is crooked and charmed. He moves his hands, and Noct darts in immediately, kissing along his cheek. Ignis follows on the other side, a mirror image. 

Prompto bites at his lip. His shoulders are shaking, and it takes Noct a second to realize that it's suppressed laughter. 

Ignis breaks from his task long enough to say, "Ticklish?"

He's probably filing the information away for later, tucking it into some mental notebook for future use. Prompto squirms, and laughs out loud this time. "No," he says, insistent, and then hisses in a breath and jerks back, laughing more.

Noct traces the line of his cheekbone; he kisses just beside his mouth. He steals back the freckles on Prompto's nose, and he peppers feather-light touches down along the side of Prompto's jaw, until Prompto's saying, "Time. Time! It's totally been three minutes, you guys."

They pull back, all of them, with a great deal of reluctance.

"Two hundred and thirty one," Gladio announces. "Beat that."

"Yeah, sure," says Noct. "Brag about it. But I got two-fifty."

"Dude," says Prompto. "Do I even have that many?"

Ignis ignores him. He adjusts his glasses and intervenes, like a particularly put-upon referee. "You've calculated your losses?"

"Not yet," says Noct. "But I'm still gonna win this."

"I figure he got five of mine, tops," says Gladio. "I took back that whole shoulder, though."

"Oh, come on," says Noct. "You weren't even looking at me! I got all the ones on Prom's nose."

"Gentlemen," says Ignis. "If you can't agree, plainly there's only one viable solution."

"Split the cake?" Prompto suggests, hopefully.

Ignis' eyes slide sideways, toward Prompto. His lips curl into a smile, fond and a touch mischievous. "Not at all," he says. "I believe a rematch is in order."


	14. Love Blooms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was: 
> 
> "For promptis: have you heard of the Hanahaki disease? It's a fictional disease that has the potential for some GREAT angst..."
> 
> I had actually only heard of it in passing, so I had to research a little for this one. I hope I didn’t do it wrong??? orz

It happens the first time on the night of the summer solstice festival, their junior year in high school.

They're sitting up on top of the parking structure five blocks down from the festival grounds, waiting for the fireworks to start. It won't be the best view in the city, but it gets them out of the crowds packing the street down below. They've done the festival games and the greasy food on sticks already; Prompto's feet are throbbing with a dull ache from wandering around all day.

It's nice, being up here above the press of people. There are a couple of other stragglers sharing the concrete overhang with them, but not many. When Prompto turns his head the right way, it's almost like it's just him and Noct.

The night's warm and balmy; the wind is ruffling Noct's hair. Noct's face is tipped upward, and his eyes are the same dark blue as the sky, that last gasp before evening fades out into night. 

Prompto wishes he could afford that camera he's been eyeing. If he had it, he'd snap a shot right now. His whole chest aches, with some indescribable need to preserve this moment.

Noct turns toward him, just a slight angling of his head, and Prompto feels his face flush, like he's been caught doing something wrong.

"What up with you?" Noct says, with that slanted smile he does so well, and Prompto's tongue feels heavy, twisted up in knots.

Something's tickling at the back of his throat.

"Nothing," says Prompto. "Just want the fireworks to hurry up and start, you know?"

They do hurry up and start. They explode across the sky like someone's lit the world on fire with magic. The thunder of them blooming covers up the sound of Prompto coughing, and he glances down into his palm, perplexed – wonders how the hell he swallowed a sylleblossom petal without knowing it.

 

* * *

 

Noct finally notices midway through senior year.

It's the week before midterms, and if Prompto's going to pass chem, he needs to cram like crazy. So Noct, eighteen now and still enamored of his brand new apartment, says, "Pack a bag and stay a couple days. We'll buckle down and do some test prep."

So Prompto packs a bag. His parents aren't due back for another two weeks yet, so he doesn't bother leaving a note.

He just slings his duffel over his shoulder and hops a train to Noct's place. His thoughts are all over on the short ride in the posh elevator, but mostly they keep coming back around to what he's going to do if Noct wants to share a bed. 

Prompto's figured it out by now; he's got it bad for his best friend. Even if his waking mind was dumb as bricks, his sleeping mind would have clued him in. His dreams lately have been all Noct, all the time. He's washed his sheets already three times this week.

That tickle is there in the back of his throat, all the way up the hall to Noct's apartment. It's so ever-present he hardly notices it anymore, but he can feel a thick kind of burning in his lungs, now, too. It feels like he's just run six miles and can't quite catch his breath.

Prompto reaches out and knocks on the door.

When Noct opens it, the warm light from the living room frames him. He's smiling, crooked and kind of wry. Behind him, Prompto can see that there's already snacks set out on the table, waiting for them.

It feels a little like coming home.

Prompto opens his mouth to say something, but suddenly that burning in his lungs is pressure, insistent and smothering. He tries to take a breath, but it wheezes in his throat. He coughs, and once he's started he can't stop.

He doubles over, there in the hallway; this time, there's not just one or two petals. This time it's dozens, a whole cascade of blue.

Prompto keeps going until he's dizzy, keeps going until his lungs feel clear and he can gasp for air. 

Noct loops an arm around him, holding him steady. He's asking, voice low with concern, whether Prompto's all right. His tone is comforting; his body heat feels like a miniature sun, pressed up against Prompto's side.

Suddenly, Prompto can't breathe again.

 

* * *

 

"No," says Noct. "Flowers."

His voice drifts in from the hallway, through the cracked-open door: one half of a phone call. Whatever this conversation is about, Prompto woke up in the middle of it – so now here he is, lying back in his bed, trying not eavesdrop.

"Yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds!" Noct snaps. "I'd think it was something out of a kid's book, if I hadn't been watching him do it for literal months."

There's a pause. Then Noct's voice comes again – softer, more strained. "I know. I'm sorry." A pause. "He kept saying he was fine." 

It's true. Prompto's been trying to tell himself that for years now. It was second nature to tell Noct, too – grin and suppress the coughing, and try to ignore that his breathing's been getting worse by the day.

"Because he passed out on the subway this afternoon," Noct says. "Look, I just – can you come? He doesn't have insurance, and I can't get ahold of his parents."

There's silence in the hall. Then Noct says, "Thanks, Specs."

There's nothing else for a long time. Then, finally, the door creaks open. Noct looks tired. His eyes are red around the edges.

"Hey," he says. "Welcome back. How are you feeling?"

"Not bad," says Prompto, but his voice is that breathy whisper that seems to be all he has the air for, these days.

"Yeah," says Noct. "Well. I talked to Ignis. He's gonna try and pull some strings to get you in to see the Citadel doctor."

Before Prompto can even open his mouth to protest, Noct's holding up a hand. "Just – let me do this, okay? I'm worried about you."

Noct crosses over to the bed and gives him a weary smile – sets a hand on his. Prompto's heart kicks into overdrive, and he does his best to offer a smile in return.

"Thanks, dude," he rasps, and Noct's fingers squeeze, and gods. Gods, now is the worst time ever for another coughing fit – but he doubles over, hacking and choking, and Noct rubs his back until he's done.

 

* * *

 

The Citadel doctor doesn't know what's wrong with him. Neither does the specialist they bring in from Altissia. 

All they know is that there's honest-to-gods plant matter in his lungs, and it's screwing with their ability to actually _be_ lungs, and that's all stuff Prompto could have told them without the hundred and twenty-seven different tests they've put him through.

He got to see the x-rays, though, and those were sort of cool. Kinda pretty, like some abstract art piece.

He told his mom that, when they finally got her on the phone. He still feels bad for making her cry. 

Prompto's been sleeping a lot, lately. The cough medicine they've got him on is the good stuff, but even with it, he can barely hold it together. When it gets bad, he curls up on his side and presses a pillow against himself, tight as he can. Doctor's orders, ever since he coughed so hard he cracked a rib.

The only good part of the whole thing is Noct.

They've moved Prompto into the Citadel for treatment, so they see each other every day, now. Noct sits by the bedside and holds his hand – rubs his thumb up and down over the knuckles. They watch dumb movies on TV, and sometimes they play video games, and when Noct gets tired of sitting in the chair, he comes and curls up on the bed, right by Prompto.

The doctor won't give him a number, but there's probably not much time left. 

Prompto can't think of a better way to spend it.

 

* * *

 

"Hey," Prompto says, one afternoon, voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah?" says Noct.

Outside the window, the sun's doing that thing it does just before sunset, when the light's not quite orangey-gold. Something in Prompto twists at the thought of it. He always kind of wanted to take photos of the view from Noct's balcony, at this time of day, after he saved up for that camera he wanted. 

He guesses he's never going to get the chance, now.

"I've been thinking," says Prompto, and then he trails off. He doesn't say anything for a long time.

"Prom?" says Noct.

"I know you're the prince," Prompto says at last. "And you can get pretty much whatever you want."

"What the hell?" Noct starts to say, but Prompto lifts a hand to cut him off, and he falls silent.

"It's true, dude," says Prompto. "Just go with it for now, okay?" He stops again. Swallows. "But if you want anything of mine, like – for anything. Just to hold onto. You can have whatever you want."

Noct's staring at him, eyes wide and stricken. The look on his face is all naked hurt.

"You've still got the spare key, right?" says Prompto. "Just let yourself in. Mom booked passage back from Accordo, but I don't think – she might not make it in time. So when you're ready, just, like – just go and take whatever."

Noct's hand is clenched around his, so hard it hurts.

Prompto means to add more, but that burning sensation is back in his lungs again. He has to give in – coughs until he's light-headed and reeling with lack of air. 

He's aware, vaguely, that Noct's there right beside him. He's aware of Noct's fingers, reaching out to thread through his hair – softly, gently, the way you'd soothe a skittish puppy. 

It feels nice. 

Even after the ache in his lungs eases up, Noct stays there, just petting his hair. 

Noct cries, but Prompto doesn't call him out on it.

 

* * *

 

Noct stays the night.

He's red-eyed and miserable, face puffy, and when Ignis comes to collect him at the end of the evening, he refuses to be moved.

The bed's big enough for the both of them – the benefits of being holed up in the Citadel, instead of a hospital – and when the coughing wakes him, Noct's there to rub his back while he works through it and press a cup of water into his hands when he's done.

The coughing's not so bad, though. He feels better than he has in a long time, that night.

In the morning, when he wakes, Noct's arms are twined around him.

 

* * *

 

The new x-rays come back, and Prompto stares down at them.

He stares up at the doctor.

"What?" he says, dumbly.

"The growth receded sixty-five percent," says the doctor. "In the past two days. We think it may be a reaction to the new medication you're on."

He's aware of Noct at his side, a warm weight against him. He's aware of Noct's fingers twined through his own.

Prompto cries, but Noct doesn't call him out on it.

 

* * *

 

Within a week, the x-rays show that his lungs are clear. Within two weeks, for the first time in years, he can take a full breath again without any pain.

He can get out of bed again and walk across a room. He goes a full 24 hours without coughing once.

When his mother makes it back from Accordo, he's well enough to launch himself at her and cling, as hard as he can. She presses kisses into his hair, and promises that his father will be home next week, and rocks him the way she used to do when he was very small.

 

* * *

 

It's afternoon, and the sun's doing that thing it does just before sunset, when the light's not quite orangey-gold.

Prompto's off bed rest, finally; they're hanging out at Noct's place, eating popcorn and playing video games. 

The scoreboard in 2 Fast 4 You is still up on the TV, showcasing how he just crashed a sleek red car into hundreds of cheering spectators, but suddenly Prompto's attention is somewhere else. His gaze wanders from the screen to the window – to the way the light catches the dust motes in the air at just the right angle, turning them to liquid gold. 

"Hey," says Prompto. "C'mere a minute."

He grabs Noct by the hand – drags him onto the balcony of his apartment. They take seventeen selfies, most with dumb faces, some very few actually decent. Insomnia stretches out behind them, buildings glinting glass and steel, cars no bigger than ants.

When Prompto leans over to show Noct the shots, their shoulders press together. He's suddenly, painfully aware of how close they're standing.

Noct's face is bare inches from his own. 

Noct's lips are parted, just a little.

Noct leans down to kiss him, and in the instant before their lips touch, Prompto just has time to think how lucky he is.


	15. Someone to Watch Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was: "One of the bros dies at some point in the journey, but the spirit of this bro follows the group around and is still able to influence the surroundings. (like he can still move things with the same strength as when he was alive) However, Noctis is the only one who can see/hear this spirit."

It only takes a second.

In a single missed strike – in a single call for backup on the radio – the tide turns.

The metal soldiers of Niflheim arrive, and they stream out of their drop ships like water from a faucet. Standing on the edge of Insomnia, backed up against a cliff overlooking the city that used to be their home, the crown prince of Lucis and his retainers struggle to stay alive.

They keep it up until Noct's arms tremble when he tries to lift his sword. They keep it up until Prompto asks for a potion and Ignis calls back, "I'm afraid we've reached the end of our supply."

They keep it up until Gladio says, "We can't stay here," and starts cutting his way through the snipers blocking the narrow canyon they came through.

They all follow. Prompto is bleeding – stumbling – barely on his feet. Noct is scraping the very end of his magic reserves, so exhausted he can scarcely put one foot in front of the other.

Gladio clears the path, and Ignis brings up the rear, and they almost make it.

Almost.

But the next drop ship holds a swarm of MT assassins and a mech the size of a small house, and in a flurry of screaming missiles and the heat of the ensuing explosion, everything changes for good.

 

* * *

 

The first night is the hardest.

They set up camp outside Hammerhead, three where there used to be four.

"I could, uhm," says Prompto, hovering by the empty cook station. "I know how to make salad?"

No one answers, and finally he sits back down.

At quarter till midnight, Gladio adds some hot water to a pack of Cup Noodles and shoves it Noct's way.

He stares at it until it goes cold, and they throw it out in the morning.

 

* * *

 

They get lost in the Weaverwilds, out in the hot dusty desert. 

None of them know the lay of the land, and Ignis had the map.

They spend the better part of a day out there, wandering across the packed, parched earth, and by the time they stagger into the hotel room at Longwythe, they're all footsore and filthy. 

They drop their clothes onto the scruffy hotel carpet and leave them where they fall. They take turns in the shower, one after the next, and then they crawl, exhausted, into bed.

No one bothers to pick up the clothes.

But in the morning, when the sun's rays first peek in through the battered hotel blinds, the discarded shirts and pants make a trim line across the table, folded crisp and careful.

 

* * *

 

Prompto's sitting cross-legged in his camp chair, hunched over his phone, when the paper bag falls off the cook station and into his lap. It tips too far before he can grab it; a pot lid clangs out onto the stone ground of the haven, and a cascade of spoons follow.

Prompto jumps – yelps – knocks his phone onto the ground and manages to get his arms around the bag before anything else spills.

"Hey," says Noct, barely glancing up. "Tone it down."

"It wasn't me," says Prompto. "It just fell."

Gladio snorts. "What, like the wind blew it over?"

"I guess," says Prompto, uncertainly.

He kneels down and repacks the paper bag, one piece of cutlery at a time. He sets it back up by the cook station, and he ignores the fact that there's not so much as the hint of a breeze.

Five minutes later, the bag's in his lap again, and this time half of what's inside is spread across the glowing runes, stretching out toward the campfire.

"Okay," says Prompto. "Dude. That was not the wind."

Noct's tapping at the screen of his phone. He makes a quiet "hm" sound, noncommital, without so much as looking up.

Gladio rolls his eyes and says, "No one cares if you knocked it over. Just pick it up again."

Prompto opens his mouth to say that he didn't knock it over, but one look at his friends' faces makes him change his mind.

Careful hands reach to retrieve Ignis' cookware from the ground. He tucks away pots and spoons, and he wonders how Iggy always made it look so easy to find space for everything.

Prompto's just trying to cram in the last frying pan when he catches sight of the scrap of paper.

It's nothing special – just the torn out page of a notebook, covered in small, immaculately neat handwriting. At the sight of the letters, so painstakingly formed, Prompto's eyes well up with tears. He ducks his head so that Noct and Gladio won't see, and he reads through a recipe for chilli that Ignis never got to make. 

Then he scrubs the back of his hand across his eyes, and he says, "Hey, guys. I'm gonna try and make dinner tonight."

He gets no answer from Noct, and Gladio fixes him with a strange, lingering look. But no one says not to, so Prompto stands up with the paper bag. 

He unpacks the pots and the spoons. He digs out the meat and the beans. He follows the directions with more care than he's ever spent on anything in his life. 

The chilli's not great. He burns it a little, and it sticks to the pot.

But it's the first real meal they've had in a week and a half, and nothing else knocks itself over for the rest of the night.

 

* * *

 

"Okay," says Gladio. "Which one of you assholes touched my sword?"

Noct shoots him the kind of dirty look he used to reserve for getting woken up at 6 am on a weekend. He says, "You think I'm gonna do weapon maintenance for you?"

And Prompto puts his hands up, the universal gesture for "I'm unarmed, please don't kill me," and says, "Don't look at me, dude. If it doesn't have a hammer and a barrel, I don't know how to clean it."

"Well, it had to be someone," snaps Gladio. "I sure as hell didn't do it in my sleep."

Noct's still scowling down at his phone, but Prompto's got this bemused sort of expression on his face. "Could've been the wind," he says, and the corners of his lips creep up a little.

"You get weirder every damn day," says Gladio. "You know that?"

 

* * *

 

They can't afford a hotel room, not really – but it's been a rough couple of weeks, and Noct says they can make it up by taking a hunt or two.

No one has the heart to argue with him. He doesn't really insist on much of anything anymore.

But even with a clean bed calling, he plunks himself down in one of the room's chairs and bows his head toward the faint white light from his phone's screen. 

Hours slip by. Gladio finishes his book and calls it a night, and not much later, Prompto finally gives up on staying awake and crawls under the covers.

"Dude," he calls, half muffled by the pillow. "Come to bed already. You know your back's gonna kill you in the morning if you fall asleep there."

But Noct just says, "In a little bit," and hunches over further.

He drifts off around 2 am, still stretched out in the hotel room chair, chin on his chest and legs sprawled out, like a child who couldn't handle being up past his bedtime.

When Prompto wakes in the morning, the first one to greet the new day, he finds that the spare blanket from the top of the closet is draped over Noct's sleeping form.

 

* * *

 

"Just one," says Prompto. "Come on, dude. I haven't asked for a photo op in like a month and a half."

He hasn't asked for a photo op since Galdin Quay, that day when all four of them stood on the overlook by the ocean. He still has that picture, with the sky wide and blue behind them, smiles on their faces. The water stretches away into the distance, light shining on the placid surface, and Ignis is raising a can of Ebony as though in salute.

Maybe Noct remembers, too, because his face goes shuttered and still, the way it always gets when he thinks about Ignis, these days. 

That would have been enough to make Prompto wish he'd kept his mouth shut all by itself, but then Gladio's turning toward him with a flat sort of look, the kind of stare that could wilt a cactus.

"You know what?" says Prompto, all in a rush. "Nevermind, it's cool. We've got places to be, right?" He's already fumbling to put the camera away, fingers clumsy. 

"It's fine," says Noct, and his tone has just enough of an edge that Prompto knows very well it isn't fine. "Just take the picture."

Prompto ducks his head and bites at his lip. "It's really – it's no big deal. The lighting's no good, anyway."

"Prompto," says Noct, and he sounds so tired.

Prompto cringes a little, because he did that. He made Noct sound like he needs to lie down and nap for the next century and a half. He opens his mouth again, to try and wave it off, but Noct says, "Just do it already," and the words feel like shards of broken glass.

The last thing Prompto wants anymore is a stupid picture.

But Noct's watching him, and so's Gladio, and trying to back out is only making it worse. Better to get it over with.

So he gets the camera out, and he props it up on a nearby outcropping of rock so he doesn't have to waste time fiddling with the tripod. He sets the timer, and he tries for a smile, and he says, "Okay, guys. We're go in fifteen seconds."

Then he darts around to join Noct and Gladio, standing there with the Duscaen arches stretching away behind them.

The camera clicks, and whirs, and Prompto circles back around to get it. 

"Sorry for the holdup," he says.

Noct inclines his head in acknowledgement and turns to start walking. Gladio falls in behind him him.

And Prompto brings up the rear, still cradling the camera. Usually, he checks the shot – but this time, he doesn't want to look. 

This time, he wishes he'd never asked.

 

* * *

 

"How was it?" says Noct, three days later, sometime close to midnight.

His voice seems too loud in the quiet dark of the campsite; gone are the nights when they filled their idle hours with poker and King's Knight. Now there's only the silence, and the endless echoes of their own thoughts, and – very occasionally— Prompto's awkward, hopeful attempts at making conversation.

Prompto glances up at the words, blinking owlishly. "How was what?"

"The picture," says Noct, and holds his hand out, expectant.

Prompto doesn't know. He still hasn't looked at it. He hasn't turned the camera on at all, since then.

But he fishes it out and hands it over – tries for a smile. "You tell me," he says.

Noct rolls his eyes and presses the on button. 

Prompto waits. He expects some kind of comment on the scenery, maybe, or the light.

He doesn't expect Noct's voice, low and shaking, to say, "Is this some kind of joke?"

He doesn't expect Noct to look up at him, jaw set and eyes bright with rage.

He doesn't expect that anger to disappear in the space of a single heartbeat, or for Noct to scramble to his feet so fast he knocks over his own camp chair, eyes wide and shocked, face so pale he looks like he's been struck.

"What?" says Gladio, looking up from his book for the first time. "What is it?"

"There," says Noct, and Prompto looks where he's pointing – sees only the forest surrounding the haven, half lost in the darkness. "Don't you see him?"

"See who?" says Prompto, but he thinks of the wind, and he watches Noct press a trembling hand to his mouth, and he knows the answer to that already.

 

* * *

 

Things are better, after that.

Noct talks again. He stirs himself out of the depths of his phone, and he engages in conversation, and sometimes, when they need to make a decision, he'll pause for a bit too long before laying out a plan that's actually quite tactically brilliant.

Prompto cooks, most nights – follows the instructions on scraps of paper that always seem to be tucked away in the bag with the cooking implements. He's not good at it, but before long the notes start to include helpful pointers for the things he struggles with. In time, the burned sauces and lopsided pastries become edible.

Gone is Gladio's perpetual scowl. He doesn't point fingers, now, when he wakes to find that his swords are cleaned and sharpened, set all out in a row. And every night, when they make camp, he unfolds the fourth chair.

 

* * *

 

The light of dawn streams in through the high windows in a wash of brilliance.

It catches the dust motes in the throne room, soft and lovely; it paints the two men standing before the throne like something from a book of children's fairy tales, picking out their Crownsguard insignia in glittering strands of silver.

Gladio's face looks carved from granite, somber and stern. Prompto's cheeks are wet with tears.

Noct watches them for a long moment.

It will be harder for them, he thinks. His part is over, but theirs – theirs has just begun.

"Highness," says a voice, softly.

Noct knows that voice. He's known it since childhood, when it tried without success to talk him out of kitchen raids and late night expeditions into the gardens.

When he glances up, past the place where two of his friends are mourning, he sees Ignis: prim and proper, eternally twenty-two. He's wearing the button-up and suspenders that he died in, and his glasses, broken on impact after that long-ago missile launch, are clean and whole.

"Hey, Specs," says Noct, and he's proud when his voice only wavers a little. "I was wondering if you'd show up."

"Honestly," says Ignis. In his tone there's a mild, fond sort of reprimand. "You know as well as I do that I've been here all along."

He takes the stairs to the throne at a stately pace – comes to stand in between Gladio and Prompto, the final missing piece of an incomplete puzzle. He holds out his hand, an offer of assistance, and Noct hesitates only an instant before he reaches out to take it in his own.

When he rises, the remnants on the throne stay behind, still pinned by his father's sword.

"Shall we?" says Ignis.

Noct glances back to where Gladio and Prompto stand, heads bowed, paralyzed in their grief. "Will they be okay?"

Ignis' hand settles on his shoulder, warm and reassuring. "We're quite capable of checking in on them from time to time, you know."

"Yeah," says Noct, and his smile is crooked and uncertain. "I guess I knew that already. 

He spares one last, lingering look for the two they'll leave behind. He swallows, hard, and he silently wishes them well.

Then he says, "I'm ready," and he follows Ignis down the stairs and out the Citadel doors, into the bright light of the dawn. 


	16. Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Tumblr drabble! The prompt for this one was: "a prompto prompt for you, since i can't get it out of my head: so by the end of his DLC, he's doing pretty well for himself. i know we all love damsel in distress prompto, but i feel like he must not've gone quietly into that Y frame. how many times do you think he killed ardyn between point A and point B? (<3 also you're fantastic and i hope you have a lovely day.)"

Whole civilizations have risen and set and provided less points of interest than the events of the past month. Whole centuries have brought him less pleasure than this glimmering dream the world has become, of late.

Ardyn feels like a child on the eve of the winter solstice, though it has been long since last he celebrated the darkest night, and longer still since his childhood.

They have squirmed so much more prettily than he ever dared to dream.

He has watched the precious little slip of a prince grow to manhood. He has marked well his wants, and his affections, and his shy attempts at romance. He has noted in his schemes the things that will hurt this boy the most, so that he might take them away.

And oh, he's so very close.

He's so very close to it all.

Ardyn can feel the anticipation prickling at his palms, roiling there below the surface. He cannot wait to shred the boy's indifferent exterior, to leave the nerves raw and exposed. The death of the Oracle was an appetizer, nothing more.

The way the prince's eyes have gone still and flat without her to light the world whets his appetite, but Ardyn craves still more.

He has so very many years of misery to repay.

And here, resting delicately in the palm of his hand, is his means to an end.

The escaped MT unit, the one they call Prompto, fights so endearingly to be free. He does not know that Ardyn has been pulling the strings of this puppet show since that first meeting beneath the cloudless sky in Galdin Quay. He does not suspect how much of the theatrics were for his benefit: conveniently placed lab notes, and weapons left out in the elements to be found in times of need.

The MT has followed every footstep laid out before him. He’s stumbled and fallen, and risen to stumble again. Each time he struggles to his feet, Ardyn scents blood in the air, a touch stronger. Each time he falters, the game becomes more amusing still.

And now, at long last: here they are, in Gralea. He's laid out his trail of breadcrumbs, and the MT has followed, as obediently as though he's been programmed. 

The MT thinks himself clever.

He thinks that he's overcome the odds to escape his home again.

He does not know that Ardyn has plans for him, yet. He does not know that in four days' time, his prince will come, and the true game will begin.

The bank of monitors spreads before him, showing all there is to see. Ardyn taps at the microphone, hears the static squeal and smiles at the discordant edge to it. "Oh, I do hope you haven't given up," says Ardyn, idly. His feet are up on the console. He's leaning back in the chair, so far he risks falling over altogether.

He cannot see the MT on the screens any longer, but that doesn't trouble him. When last he caught sight of his quarry, ducking into a maintenance closet, the poor dear was bleeding from an axe wound and dragging one leg behind him.

Broken, doubtless. One of the many unfortunate risks to traveling by snowmobile.

"Come now," says Ardyn, into the microphone. "What would Noct say? He'll find what's left of you, and imagine how his face will crumble."

It's a lovely mental picture. There will be tears, and recrimination, and self-loathing. He hasn't decided what to do with the MT just yet. When the prince arrives, his purpose will have been served.

Perhaps another corpse in the path of the Chosen King is just the fuel he needs to propel him into the loving arms of the Crystal.

Ardyn is so caught up in the thought of it, in playing through the expressions the prince will make, that he almost misses the sound.

It's a faint noise, the scrape of metal on metal. He turns his head, idly, to see if an axeman has come to patrol his hall, but instead he catches a glimpse of a freckled head, still swathed in a winter hat, poking down out of a vent on the ceiling.

The MT's arm squirms its way through the vent, and the gloved hand is holding a gun.

Ardyn smirks at the barrel leveled his way, and then up at the MT's face. "Goodness," he says. "Would you like some help down? I'm afraid your poor leg won't take the weight just now."

He hears the rapport of the gun, and feels pain, just for an instant, before the world goes black.

When he wakes, perhaps fifteen seconds later, the MT's feet are poking out of the vent as he lowers himself to the floor, slow and painstaking. He's trying to cushion the fall as much he's able, doubtless. That leg really does look a frightful mess.

Ardyn lifts a hand to his forehead, and touches the place where the blood from the bullet entry is still warm. The skin's closed behind it, smooth and even.

He smiles, more to himself than anything else, and stands. He brushes himself off and rises, casual steps bringing him to the bottom of the vent.

Then he takes hold of the MT's broken leg and yanks.

The bone shifts beneath his grip; the MT cries out in pain and scrabbles at the metal of the vent.

He comes free anyway, and Ardyn tosses him against the console panel like the discarded doll of a petulant child.

"But," says the MT, eyes wide with terror. "But I shot you!"

"Why yes," says Ardyn, pleasantly. "I suppose you did. And how unsporting. After all, I haven't killed _you_ , yet."

The MT still has the gun. He lifts it now, in shaking hands, and pulls the trigger.

The world goes black again, and Ardyn feels himself fall against the hard tile of the floor. When he opens his eyes, the MT is gone, and a smear of blood leads out into the hallway.

Well. Perhaps he'll have something to occupy his time until the prince arrives, after all.

 

* * *

 

"Don't be so hard on yourself," says Ardyn, as he forces the MT's wrist into the restraint and snaps it home. "You lasted far longer than I expected you to."

The MT grits his teeth and glares.

The poor darling must be in breathtaking pain by now. His skin is a patchwork of cuts and bruises, and that leg must be aching something awful.

He knows he promised himself that he'd leave a corpse for the prince to stumble across, but these past few hours of cat and mouse have given him a much better idea.

"Now," says Ardyn. "Do be a good boy and wait here, won't you? I have a bit of equipment I'd like to pick up."

There's plenty he can manage with his bare hands, after all. But by his count, he has seven deaths to repay.

It's probably for the best that he can make all the curatives he needs.


	17. Action Movie Heroes

"You're out of your godsdamned mind," says Gladio, and shoves Prompto back down on the narrow camper bed.

Ignis' hand presses to his forehead, cool and firm, businesslike. "He may well be. The fever's up again, I'm afraid."

"I'm fine," says Prompto.

And he is fine. He's even mostly in one piece, which is more than a lot of other people can say, these days.

The sun's been gone for eleven months now, and there's not a whole lot left to take its place. There's perpetual dark, and thousands and thousands of dead. There's crops that won't grow, and animals that are gonna kick it in the next few months because there's just no grass to eat, and a canned food supply that's going to give out before they can figure out how the hell to feed themselves, if they don't stay on top of it.

They've been planning this run down to Galdin Quay for two weeks now. They've been planning to pay a visit to Coctura's pantry, whatever's left of it.

So of course Prompto had to go and get his leg smashed by an iron giant outside Longwythe. Of course it had to be bad enough that a potion didn't heal it up all the way. And on top of that – of course – now the damn thing's infected.

That's just the way Prompto's life goes, these days.

"I'm fine," he says again, like he's trying to prove it to himself.

Ignis gives a small huff of disbelief, and Gladio says, "You can't even stand."

"I don't need to be able to stand," Prompto tells him. "I just need to be able to shoot."

Gladio folds his massive arms across his chest and stares down at Prompto like a disappointed parent. "It was a stupid idea when you were up and moving. Now it's damn near suicidal."

Prompto rolls his eyes and pushes himself up to sitting. His leg screams in protest, but he ignores it – levers himself up off the edge of the camper bed.

He kind of wishes they could spare an elixir, but there's not that many left. The new rule is that the big curatives go to life-threatening injuries only, and this one doesn’t quite meet the grade. It just hurts like hell.

"It's the same," says Prompto. "I was gonna be screwed if anything caught us, anyway. Just drive fast."

Gladio snorts. "Iggy, back me up here."

Ignis says, "The pair of you vetoed anything resembling common sense a long time ago."

"There," says Prompto. "See? Who needs common sense, anyway?"

And he holds out his arms, and he smiles his best, charming grin, and he says, "Now, you guys gonna help me to the truck, or what?"

 

* * *

 

With perfect 20/20 hindsight, Prompto thinks that they really ought to listen to Ignis more.

And that maybe common sense would be worth keeping around. Not, like, a ton of it. Just a little bit. Just enough to whisper to his mind that hey, maybe that terrible plan is going to actually get you killed this time.

Prompto has this thought when the red giant looms over the bed of the pickup truck, close enough for him to feel the heat baking off its sword. He has it again when a hobgoblin jumps up into the truck with him, its tiny clawed feet sounding like a tap-dance on the metal. He has it again when his bullets scream through the night, clearing the daemons from the roadside so that Gladio can drive through the twisting canyon like a frenzied behemoth.

This would've made one hell of a shooting game. If it was in the arcade he and Noct used to hit after class got out in high school, he'd have been all over it.

Would've been a pretty badass action movie, too, come to think of it. It's got all the parts: a car chase, and cool weaponry, and so many daemons the SFX budget would've been through the roof.

But here and now, living it, it's not nearly so cool. Here and now, Prompto's leg hurts so much he wants to puke, and the endless black of the sky's pressing down on him, and for every daemon he shoots down, two more seem to pop up to take its place.

He's never been happier than when the truck squeals into the parking lot at Galdin Quay.

He hears the doors open – both of them – and Gladio yells, "I'll be less than five minutes."

Then he's gone, and Ignis is pulling himself up into the truck bed beside Prompto. "How is it?" he asks, and Prompto levers himself up so that he can stare out into the perpetual night.

Daemons are showing up already – drawn by the motion, and their voices. He thinks at first that there's only a half-dozen or so, but then more bubble up out of the ground.

And more. And _more_.

"Uh," says Prompto. "We better get busy."

Then he trains his sights on the dark shapes moving in the darkness, and he opens fire.


	18. With the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt was for something set in the universe of either The Way They Were or Running Behind. When I asked if the prompter wanted anything more specific, the reply was: "I really don't have anything specific in mind, just... more <3 More of either promptis after the fix-it fic and their lifes in insomnia that is in the process of rebuilding, or anything really of mt!prompto. Stuff from before the fic, or way after, anything. Thank you"
> 
> So have some Running Behind!Prompto, making his way in Lucis long before he ever met the boys. :)

NH-01987's foot finds a rock, and he goes down on the scrub grass of the ground.

He doesn't have time to rest, though – doesn't have time to do anything but scramble back to his feet and lurch onward, as fast as his legs can carry him.

Since his frantic escape from Gralea ten months ago, every waking moment has been filled with new and painful challenges. His days are spent in dark overhangs and thickly wooded areas, attempting to snatch a few hours of sleep away from the burning embrace of the sun. His nights are spent moving, pushing ever east.

He has some vague idea that he'd like to find a place to stop, eventually. It will need to be secluded, and there will need to be food and water close enough for him to live off the land. There will have to be shelter from the daylight, which scorches him red and raw. He'll have to find a weapon, before he gets there, so that he has something to defend himself, or even use to catch food. Gods, food would be nice.

But those are dreams for another time.

For now, NH-01987 will just be happy to live to see the dawn.

He staggers again, and reaches out just in time to catch himself on the trunk of a tree before he can fall face-first into the dirt. The nights in Lucis are an endless exercise in endurance. They offer protection from the sun above him, true – but the daemons that bubble up out of the ground dog his steps and keep him on the move. If he pushes on, exhaustion tears at him; if he tries to stop, the daemons do.

He thinks he's lost the horde of goblins that were nipping at his heels. He hasn't heard them in a while, crunching through the undergrowth.

Maybe he's safe. Maybe he can rest a minute.

He's barely had time to process the thought when the ground near him erupts into a creaking groan. From the puddle of inky black that splays out beneath his feet, something begins to emerge: an eerie shade of purple, amorphous and strange.

NH-01987 knows these things. They grow and they grow, and when they finally burst, too swollen to sustain their form, anything within the blast radius is left on the ground, electrocuted and writhing in pain. He's done that once before. He doesn't want to do it again.

So NH-01987 runs. He ducks his head and forces his exhausted body to put one foot in front of the other.

Just a little faster, he pleads with himself. Just a little farther.

It's a lie, and he knows it; he'll likely have to keep this up the whole night. But the more he repeats it, the more he believes it, and he needs something to believe, right now.

If he had a light of his own, he might have missed it. The glow is faint, but with only the moonlight to guide him, the bluish tinge stands out against the darkness of the night.

NH-01987 has never seen anything like it before. It's not like the warm electric glow of the lights in towns. It's not like the flickering of a campfire.

It's something altogether different, but right now, NH-01987 doesn't care what it is.

Some kinds of light keep the daemons away. That's enough for him.

NH-01987 veers toward the blue glow. There's something faint and smoke-like rising from the ground, but he can't make it out – doesn't have time to wonder what it could be. He only stumbles on, heart plunging the closer he gets. He can see the source of the light, now: some sort of writing carved into the stone on the ground.

It's not bright enough, he thinks, as he crests the ridge to stand on top of the strange marks. This won't be enough to keep him safe.

But to NH-01987's wonder, the daemons come no closer. They hover around the edges of the stone, watching him with eyes of glowering purple flame.

He takes a breath in, and then another. He stands staring at them for a long moment, waiting for them to press in around him. 

They never come.

They stay beyond the circle of stone, and after what feels like years but is probably only minutes, NH-01987 sinks to his knees, weak with relief.

The daemons stay. They watch, and they hover, and they come no nearer.

For perhaps half an hour, NH-01987 rests, overwhelmed with gratitude. His thoughts are muddy and indistinct from exhaustion; his legs ache, and his back aches, and he has a dozen minor unhealed injuries that pain him, but he's safe for now, and that's all that matters.

He doesn't know for certain when the feeling starts.

It begins in his stomach, low and churning, like the one memorable occasion when hunger drove him, in desperation, to gnaw hopefully at a long-dead creature scraped from the road. The sickness burned at the back of his mouth and twisted at his guts; it's like that now, but a thousand times worse.

Before long, he feels so dizzy he has to lie down – shifts so that he's curled up on the glowing stone beneath him.

He closes his eyes and drifts for a time. When he opens them again, the nausea is stronger, and he burns, all over, like he's ventured out beneath the sun.

NH-01987 struggles to rise, but he can't quite get his arms under him.

For the first time, it occurs to him that if daemons fear the light so badly, the scourge burning through his veins won't take to it, either.

He drags himself toward the edge of the stone area – gets perhaps six inches before he doubles over. He shouldn't have anything to vomit up, anymore. He hasn't eaten in two days. But black bile comes up, thick and dark and viscous.

NH-01987 chokes and gags – bends his head and retches again.

There's a lot of it. There hasn't been this much since the last time the doctors in Niflheim strapped him to a table and stuck tubes in his arms. That day, he'd spent the better part of an afternoon bent over, choking up bitter sludge until tears streamed down his face and his trainers, in disgust, had dismissed him from the rest of the day's drills.

He needs to go. He needs to get away.

The burning is worse, now; it's thrumming through his veins and searing him beneath the skin.

But whatever it is, this strange blue light seems to have sapped what little strength he has left. He tries to drag himself forward, but finds that his arms shake and wobble and refuse to hold him.

Move, NH-01987 thinks. Move. You didn't come all this way to die here.

But his body doesn't listen, and there at the corners of his eyes, the world has gone grey and indistinct.

NH-01987 closes his eyes. He presses his forehead against the glowing blue writing beneath him.

And he sleeps, for what he's sure will be the last time.

 

* * *

 

When NH-01987 wakes, he's very warm.

The ground beneath him is hard and unforgiving, and there's a terrible taste in his mouth, and he blinks his eyes open, bleary and uncertain. 

The first things he sees is stone, traced with strange carvings.

The second thing he sees, when he rolls over onto his back, is the sun.

The sky is wide and blue above him, and there it is, in the height of its arc, beating down on the world.

NH-01987 yelps – flinches – scrambles to his feet.

He's halfway to the cover of the surrounding trees when it hits him: the light on his skin doesn't burn.

There is pain, still, but it's the pain of old bruises, of the blisters on the soles of his feet, of the goblin clawmarks long since scabbed.

This pain doesn't sear him from the inside out. It doesn't catch at him until he's a huddled ball beneath an outcropping of rock. This pain is not the sun's pain, and NH-01987 stumbles to a stop, frozen with realization.

All below him, the rock of the haven is clean and clear, the black bile from the night before burned away with the dawn.  

NH-01987 tips his head up toward the sky, squinting, and stares at the too-bright stretch of blue for a long, long time.


	19. Notice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was:
> 
> "How about something about Gladio and Ignis or other Citadel-related people handling the fact that puberty turned Noctis from a cute kid into a really surprisingly attractive young man?"

Puberty comes late to the crown prince of Lucis. At fifteen, he still looks like a child, with a certain softness to his face and a slenderness to his build.

He tries to beg his way out of school picture day, because he knows well enough that, when he stands beside his classmates, he'll be shorter than all but a handful.

Then comes sixteen, and with it all the trappings of adulthood. Per the king's instructions, Ignis begins briefing Noct in more expansive matters of state: in boundary disputes and diplomacy; in civic planning and rules of law.

It's as though Noct's body rushes to catch up with the responsibility.

He grows a foot in two months; his limbs take on the gangling, awkward look of adolescent puppies. He has to be measured for an entire new wardrobe, and then another, several months after that.

Ignis notes the razor that rests by the bathroom sink now, a point of pride, though he doubts that Noct has much call to use it. He notes the frequency with which the maids have to change His Highness' sheets, and he sighs, reminds himself of the hormone-driven days he was more than happy to leave behind, and sits Noctis down for the most embarrassing conversation that he has ever had call to engage in with another human being.

It lasts for half an hour. It focuses primarily on responsibilities, and the importance of maintaining the royal lineage. It covers the unpleasant effects of certain sexually transmitted diseases, and what measures should be taken in order to avoid scandal. 

It ends with Noctis in possession of a box of condoms.

It ends with the knowledge that Noct can turn that peculiar shade of dahlia pink, heretofore unseen.

 

* * *

 

The damn kid has a fan club. 

Gladio's not sure when it happened, but hell if it isn't the funniest thing he's ever heard.

Iris comes home from school one day, all worked up about it, and Gladio knows by now exactly which way to prod to get his sister to talk about whatever she's excited about. She's bad at hiding it; that's just the kind of person she is. If she's into something, it comes bubbling up out of her.

So he prods, and she begs off answering, and then two hours later, she comes back around while Gladio's reading in his father's study. She sits herself down on the couch, and she says, "I wasn't the one who started it," and Gladio feels his eyebrow go up.

Iris launches into a tale of intrigue and betrayal, one that ends with two of the most popular girls at their school founding the Prince Noctis Fan Club.

And what else was she going to do? She has to keep an eye on them, to make sure they're not doing anything that'll be bad for Noct's good name. So she joined, too. She might not be first in line to be Shield, but she can shield the prince from  _some_  things, at least.

Gladio tells her that she did the right thing.

He agrees that it's best she keep tabs on membership, for Noct's sake. 

He sees her to the door, and he closes it behind her, and he sits back down with his book.

Then he laughs so hard tears roll down his cheeks, and bites his thumb to keep from being loud about it.

And when Iris' class comes to the Citadel on their field trip, he cajoles Noct into playing tour guide.

 

* * *

 

Noct's new apartment looks like a space that can be lived in, finally.

The cardboard boxes scattered haphazardly across the floor have long been unpacked. Their contents fill the shelves. Ignis saw to most of it, fiddling with considerations such as convenience and aesthetics, while Noct played games on his sofa.

That's months in the past, now. On the occasions when the space is clean, it actually looks quite nice.

The young man that stands in the center of it, in his trim black suit and sloppy tie, looks at home here. It's done Noct a world of good, getting some space for himself outside the Citadel.

The new living arrangements come with several specific unfortunate downsides, however. Among them: the time between coaxing Noctis from bed and him walking through the door to the Council's chamber has dramatically increased.

Ignis glances him over, with a critical eye.

He looks half awake, still. His hair has been gelled, but there's a certain sloppiness to the way it's been teased into its peaks and valleys. His face is washed, but the concealer and eyeliner the prince sometimes takes pains to apply is conspicuously absent, abandoned in favor of a few more minutes in bed. The tie knotted at his throat, a beautiful silken blue, looks as though it's been arranged by a five year old.

"Honestly, Noct," says Ignis, and steps forward to straighten it up.

His fingers slide against the silk; his touches are brisk and businesslike. But he's aware of Noct's eyes on him, that curious shade of night-sky blue. He's aware of long lashes that truly don't need the help of the eyeliner. He's aware of the way Noct's lips curve up at the corner into a smile, fond and familiar.

Suddenly, Ignis isn't certain when the chubby toddler he played with as a child turned into this young man before him, who looks every inch the dashing prince from the pages of a fairy tale.

"You do it better, anyway," says Noct.

 Ignis steps back and admires his handwork; the tie is crisp and even, and Noctis looks very much the young gentleman.

"There," he says. "That will serve."

It will more than serve. 

His Highness has a photo shoot for a popular girl's magazine next week. Ignis makes a mental note to ensure they fit this tie into the wardrobe.

It complements the blue of Noct's eyes quite nicely, indeed.

 

* * *

 

They're in the middle of training when Noct loses the shirt.

Gladio doesn't blame him; it's hot as hell, and they've been going at it for damn near an hour and a half. He stripped out of his own at the start of the session, and he's still sweating buckets.

But Noct hardly ever ditches his.

If Gladio had to guess, he'd say it probably has something to do with the mess of a scar halfway down the kid's back. It's pretty badass, honestly, but he there's no telling what'll set someone off. 

Whatever the reason, Noct keeps the shirt on, most days. He hasn't taken it off in training for – hell, probably almost four years now.

He was a scrawny scrap of a thing, last time Gladio saw him without it, but those days, it looks like, are long in the past.

He's filled out, that's for sure. The shoulders are broader, and the abdomen is all lean muscle. However much Gladio gets on him to lay off the pizza, he doesn't need to. Sure, he's not ripped. Gladio knows for damn sure he can bench press four times what Noct can pull off, easy.

But Noct's trained in just about every weapon in the armory, and it shows. He's built like a gymnast, all sleek power. 

It's a good look on him. No wonder his fan club's having its three year anniversary next week.

When Noct glances up and catches him looking, Gladio gives an unimpressed snort.

"Gonna have to step up arm day," he says. "Can't have the crown prince flexing with those noodle arms."

"Noodle arms," says Noct. "Right." There's a flash of blue, and the biggest great sword in the Armiger flickers to life in his hands. It's as long as Noct is. When they started, he could barely lift it, but now he falls into his stance, massive blade out before him, head tipped up in challenge. "That sounds to me like an invite to knock you on your ass."

Gladio feels himself grinning. He calls up his own sword in one hand – uses the other to crook his fingers, the world's universal come-get-some gesture. "Bring it, princess. Let's see what you've got."

 

* * *

 

The Accordan ambassador is tall and amiable, and entirely too familiar with the prince.

At dinner, he's seated to Noct's left, and he spends the meal leaning in closer than is proper. After, he blames the drink; Lucian wine, he claims, is far more powerful than what he's grown accustomed to.

Ignis, who counts himself something of an expert on vintages, knows very well that the alcohol content from most Accordan wines is much higher, but for propriety's sake, he presses his lips together and says nothing.

After the meal, King Regis and his son retire to the lounge to entertain the visiting diplomat. There are certain concessions in the upcoming trade deal that His Majesty hopes to lay the groundwork for, off the books.

Ignis won't be needed for the remainder of the evening. He's free to retire to his own quarters, and nothing pressing requires his attention. It could be one of those rare few early nights, if he so chooses.

Instead, he lingers in the grand hall, seating himself where the tour groups pass to and fro, during daylight hours. Now, the there are no curious eyes about to see the sights. Now, the Citadel is nearly empty.

He's not certain what he's waiting for.

He idles there far longer than he can excuse as fancy, tapping notes to himself neatly into his phone for tomorrow's meetings, for want of anything better to do.

That's where Gladiolus finds him. The man's in a suit, hair slicked back. He had a tie at one point, but it's been removed from its spot around his neck, crammed into a pocket haphazardly.

"What," says Gladio, slowing to a stop before him. "You don't have anywhere else to be?"

"Not at the moment," says Ignis, primly, and taps in the last of his notes before looking up.

Gladio sprawls onto the bench without waiting to be invited, legs spread casually in the manner of ill-behaved thirteen-year-old boys. Ignis spares him a lingering glance. 

"Never seen you not in a rush to do something or other," says Gladio, bemused.

"There's nothing wrong with keeping a tight schedule." Ignis adjusts his glasses, though truth be told they don't need it. "What of yourself? It isn't like you to linger after hours."

Gladio lifts one big shoulder and lets it fall. "What, can't a guy feel like hanging around?"

It would be hypocritical for Ignis to argue the point, and so he doesn't. He only opens up a new document for his three o'clock with the minister of finance and begins tapping in something new.

He's written barely two words when his phone buzzes.

It's a text from Noct, and it reads, "you still around?"

Ignis replies immediately: "I am."

There is a moment's pause, during which Ignis pretends to add to his notes but makes no alterations of any value. Then a new text arrives. "can you come here pls."

He's on his feet before he's finished reading, turning toward the elevator that leads up to the higher-security levels of the Citadel.

Gladio says, "What's the rush?"

And Ignis, thoughts on the Accordan ambassador blaming the wine, says, "Noct," and his tone is a bit tighter than he intended.

Perhaps Gladio can read his inflection. Perhaps his posture, more closed off than usual, gives him away.

But Gladiolus is on his feet an instant later, falling into step beside Ignis as he makes for the elevator. "On my way," Ignis taps into his phone, as the doors slide closed behind him.

They arrive at the king's lounge barely five minutes later. Ignis knocks on the door, brisk and businesslike, and calls out, "Highness?" in a voice loud enough to be audible through the elaborate paneled wood.

There's a pause, and then Noct opens the door.

He's decidedly more disheveled than he was half an hour ago. His hair is askew, and the knot of his tie is sloppy. But more than that, his eyes are flat and guarded, in the way they get when he's upset about something.

Ignis takes in the scene: a room empty of King Regis, empty of anyone else save the Accordan ambassador leaning casually back against the couch, a glass of half-drunk scotch in his hand. His face is redder than it was before, and he looks a touch disheveled, as well.

And Noct. Noct catches at Ignis' cuff and stares up at him, and then toward Gladio, standing there in the hall. His grip is too tight, and his fingers are trembling.

That tells Ignis all he needs to know.

"Terribly sorry," says Ignis. "I'm afraid the Council has announced an emergency meeting. His Highness is required elsewhere."

Then he holds the door wide and says, "Gladiolus, if you'd be so kind as to see the ambassador out?"

He doesn't think he imagines the way Gladio's eyes linger on Noct. He doesn't think he imagines the tightness in the man's jaw. "With pleasure," says Gladio, grimly.

"Highness," says Ignis. "Shall we? The timeline is rather pressing, I'm afraid."

Noct nods, and lets go of Ignis' sleeve. He says, "Lead the way."

He follows Ignis out into the hall, toward the Council chamber. They walk in silence until they reach the first turn in the hallway. Then Ignis changes his route, circling back around to veer toward the Citadel's private suites.

It takes them just shy of five minutes to reach Noct's old room. It's maintained in his absence, for when an official function runs late and he wishes to stay over instead of returning to his apartment.

He stands there in the doorway, looking somewhat harrowed, until Ignis says, "If he tries to reschedule, I'll shift his appointments around until his ship sails. After he's safely off our shores, the authorities in Accordo will receive a request for a new representative."

"Thanks," says Noct. He swallows. "My dad had to beg off. His leg gets bad, you know? But I thought, it's just groundwork, right? I'm okay at negotiating."

Ignis waits for the rest. He hopes that Gladio was rather less gentle than usually warranted, in seeing the ambassador out.

When the silence stretches too long, Noct says, "He got kinda handsy. I would've punched him out, only I thought dad wouldn't appreciate a diplomatic incident."

Ignis feels a strange swell in his chest at the words. He says, "The right ties in the Accordan media make certain diplomatic incidents all but disappear, you'll find. As it so happens, I have the right ties in the Accordan media."

"So you're saying I should have punched him out."

"I'm saying," says Ignis, tone more fierce than intended, "that it would have been no more than he deserved."

Noct thaws a little, then. The guardedness slips from his eyes, and from his posture. He looks like he means to reply, but Ignis' phone buzzes before he can. "Go on," says Noct. "It's probably Gladio."

It is, in fact, Gladio.

"How is he?" the text reads. "Does this guy need to accidentally fall down the stairs before I cut him loose?"

Ignis stifles a smile. "Your Shield," he says, "is considering something of a diplomatic incident of his own."

Noct leans over to look, with a huff of something very nearly a laugh. "Call him off. And tell him I'm fine."

Ignis taps his reply into the phone and then slides it into his pocket again. "Are you?" he says, when he looks up.

"I am," says Noct. But the longer Ignis stares, frank and even, the less Noct seems able to meet the gaze. "I just didn't expect it, you know?"

Ignis takes a breath in and lets it out slowly. It's a rhetorical question, but he finds himself answering, anyway. "Nor should you have had to."

They stand there for a moment, in silence. At last, Noct says, "Thanks, Specs."

"I would say any time," says Ignis, "but frankly, I'm hoping we've never cause for a repeat occurrence."

Noct smiles, wry and crooked. "You and me both." He turns from the door, toward the couch where he used to play video games at twelve years of age, and sits himself down on the indent that still indicates his favorite spot. "Hey," he says, almost as though it's an afterthought. "You mind giving me a ride home, when we get out of here?"

"Not at all," says Ignis. "Although I suspect we'd best wait for Gladio. Unless I miss my guess, he'll be along shortly."

Gladio is along shortly, and he brings with him some choice words about the Accordan ambassador's parentage. Ignis adds a few thoughts of his own, decidedly less crude but every bit as cutting.

By the time they see Noct from the building, through the meandering back hallways of the Citadel and into the private attached garage, that shaken, uncertain look has been chased from his face entirely.


	20. After

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was, "Promnis: established relationship, first kiss after the Altissia disaster. Because I'm ready to hurt apparently."

It's like a nightmare.

It's like those dreams Prompto has where everything is falling apart around him, and no matter how hard he tries, he just isn't good enough to fix it.

Those are the worst dreams: when he can taste the helplessness at the back of his throat like bile, and the world comes undone at the seams. Prompto always wakes from those dreams gasping and trembling.

He keeps waiting to wake up now.

The sky is a flat and unforgiving slate grey. Below it, the shattered remains of the most beautiful place Prompto's ever set foot stretch away like so much garbage. There's a slick sheen of seawater over everything; what few roofs still cling to partially standing walls drip disconsolately into the pools among the remaining cobblestones.

Everything is eerily still.

Prompto doesn't know where Ignis and Gladio are. He doesn't know where Noct is. He lost track of them – and pretty much everything – beneath the fury of a god.

The whole world seems miles away. Every part of him feels numb.

He wonders if this is what shock is like.

There on the ground, he passes shattered remnants of peoples' lives: a woman's locket. A man's boot. A child's doll.

In the distance, he hears screaming, high and shrill and panicked. He turns toward it, picking his way through the rubble – has some vague sense that he ought to help.

But Prompto never finds the person who's screaming.

He finds Ignis instead, sprawled on the ground, as broken as Altissia itself.

His foot catches on what he assumes is a piece of debris, and he trips, very nearly going down. But it's not debris at all: he recognizes that sensible button-up and those suspenders. He knows the sleek contour of those dress shoes.

He stands and stares for a single, heart-stopping moment – and then he's on his knees.

The world seems broken up into fragments of impressions. He's aware of the seawater soaking through his jeans. He's aware of the heat of Ignis' skin beneath his palm.

He's aware of all the blood. There's so much _blood_.

Prompto's hands are shaking as he fumbles his way into his pocket, searching for something to help. He has nothing but a potion – knows that he needs more, for a wound like this. But he tips the liquid out onto Ignis' face and watches as the bleeding slows to a trickle.

It's something.

It's not enough.

It's like a nightmare: hoping the potion healed Ignis enough to make moving him safe, because the tide is coming in, lapping at the crooked cobblestones, and Prompto can't risk leaving him here to drown.

It's like a nightmare: holding Ignis close and staggering through the shattered city, calling for someone to help.

It's like a nightmare: the clean cotton sheets, and the doctor's voice saying, "He may yet recover."

No one believes that. 

Ignis certainly doesn't. Prompto can feel it in the hand that grips his own, hard enough to hurt – can see it in the slump of Iggy's shoulders, usual perfect posture swept away with the flood.

"It'll be okay," says Prompto, quietly, and tries to force a smile. Even if Ignis can't see it, maybe it will slip through into his voice.

He leans in, carefully – places a kiss just below the clean bandages swathed across Ignis' cheek.

Ignis doesn't answer. He just leans his head against Prompto's shoulder, and they sit like that for a long, long time.


	21. The Chocobros and the Haunted House

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was "The Chocobros and The Haunted House." :)

It opens on the edge of Prompto's neighborhood, out where the sleepy, low income family homes start edging into the high rises of Insomnia's inner city.

It's a house Prompto used to pass every day on his morning jog, and it's stood empty just about forever. He's watched the vines creep up its side, and the paint peel, and the grass get scraggly and overgrown. When he sees the SOLD sign on the lawn, he thinks, "Someone's got their work cut out for them."

But no one fixes it up.

They just add a big, ugly, dead-looking tree to the front yard. Then there are a bunch of spider webs. It's when he catches sight of a skeletal hand poking up out of the ground under a newly-installed gravestone that he finally catches a clue.

And sure enough, the fliers start appearing around Insomnia, promising the best haunted house the city's ever seen.

"Check it out," says Prompto, the next day at school, twisting completely around in his chair so that he can face Noct, who sits behind him in chemistry. He slaps the flier down on the desk, and he waits, expectant, while Noct read through it.

"A haunted house, huh?" he says.

"It's gonna be awesome," says Prompto. "Can we go? You wanna go, right?"

"I guess," says Noct, reluctantly. "But it better be cooler than that one in the strip mall downtown. That thing almost put me to sleep."

"Dude," says Prompto. "Everything puts you to sleep. It's kind of your thing."

Noct snorts and lifts an eyebrow – starts to reply. But that's when the school bell rings to herald the start of class.

It's still two weeks to the grand opening, and Prompto spends them enthusing about the haunted house, in great detail, every chance he gets.

Ignis hears about it one afternoon after school. Prompto waves around a new flier, the one that says kids under thirteen years old aren't allowed. It seems like the ultimate promise: this thing is so scary that they need an age limit.

By the end of the conversation, Prompto bright-eyed and enthusiastic, Noct wondering avidly what they could put in there that's so terrifying, Ignis decides they need a chaperone and announces he's going with them.

If either of them suspect that the real reason has more to do with the fact that he's all of seventeen years old and perhaps just wants to go to the haunted house, they are wise enough not to say it.

Gladio hears about it from Iris.

Predictably, she's heartbroken. She's ten, and that means she's officially banned.

"I have to wait three years, Gladdy," she tells him, tears standing in her eyes. "I'll be an old woman by then."

Gladio pats her head, and says, "Looks at it this way. If it's good, it'll keep showing up every year. If it sucks, it might not be back, but then you won't be missing anything, anyway."

But she sulks and mopes and acts like someone shot her puppy, right up until the day when Gladio says, "Look. I know some guys who're going. How bout I go, too, and do some reconnaissance?"

She rounds on him, fiercely, and says, "Don't you dare hide your eyes! I want to know about every single drop of blood."

 

* * *

 

The line stretches for blocks.

Plural. Three of them. It wraps around the first one, and snakes onto the second, and twists idly around the third.

Any reasonable person might have said, "Why don't we come back another day?"

But Prompto is wired, practically bouncing on his feet, and Noctis has caught some of his excitement, eyes bright and a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

So they wait in line. And wait. And wait.

They play charades, and twenty questions, and I spy.

And finally – at nearly two in the afternoon – they reach the front door.

"Welcome," says the cadaverous woman at the entryway, face makeup making it seem as though her skin has begun to drip off. "You may enter, if you choose. But be advised: we cannot guarantee your safe return."

"We got this, lady," says Gladio. "But thanks."

And he pushes in the front door.

 

* * *

 

"When I'm king," says Noct, thirty long minutes later, in a voice that's harrowed and unsteady. "I'm banning haunted houses."

Ignis adjusts his glasses. "Come now," he says. "Surely it wasn't as bad as all that."

"I had a good time," says Gladio. "Not every day you get to hear your next king shriek like a little girl."

"What?" says Noct. "No way. That was Prompto." His eyes dart away, and his cheeks go a dusky sort of pink. "Right, Prom?"

Prompto is still wrapped around Gladio, arms and legs clinging for dear life. He looks like a man who has discovered the only tree in a vast plain inhabited by rabid voreteeth.

With great reluctance, he peels himself free and climbs down. His face is pale as milk, and he's shaking and unsteady on his feet – but he's grinning when he says, "Guys. _Guys_. We gotta go again."


	22. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> "I'm still in a mindset of bumbling-accident-prone-prompto-trying-to-prove-himself and I was wondering if you could write something in that vein, like he's trying to impress Noct and messes up in crownsguard training, but he still likes him anyway, or something to that effect?"

Okay. Okay, he can do this.

So what if it's his second day in training? 

So what if he can barely hold the practice sword properly?

So what if Noct just casually announced that he was going to swing by and watch Cor put him through drills, like it didn't strike Prompto through his very heart with terror?

He can still do this. He's going to be on the Crownsguard. That makes him like an honorary badass already, right? He's got to be, if he doesn't want to mess this up.

The Crownsguard. Gods. _Him_. 

"Argentum," says Cor, tone flat and unreadable.

"Yes?" squeaks Prompto.

"Relax. Shoulders down."

Prompto tries. Really he does. But it's hard to practice the same block, over and over again, without his brain picking apart every little thing he's getting wrong. When it's done ripping him to shreds, it takes off running down a path five years from now, when Crownsguard Argentum, or whatever the hell his title will be, inevitably drops the ball and gets the prince he's supposed to be protecting killed.

"Argentum," Cor says, with a sharper inflection this time.

"Sorry," says Prompto, and tries to relax his shoulders. 

Only somehow, when he relaxes his shoulders, he relaxes his whole arm. The grip on the handle of the practice sword falters as he brings the blunted blade down, and he can feel his grip slipping in horrified slow motion.

He watches the thing Cor swore should become an extension of his arm as it springs from his fingers. He watches it clang to the ground with a clatter of metal on stone that he's sure he'll be hearing in his anxiety nightmares for months. He watches Cor's face, hard as granite, disapproval creeping in around the edges.

He can't bring himself to look toward Noct.

Prompto dives for the sword, like if he's fast enough he can erase the last fifteen seconds from existence. When he comes up, he knows he's blushing like crazy. Even his ears feel hot.

"Uh," says Prompto. "Just the shoulders next time. Got it."

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, he's sitting on the bench outside the training hall, hoping one of the gods will have mercy and strike him dead. He'll take a lightning bolt from Ramuh. He'll take a blizzard from Shiva. Hell, he'll even take Bahamut's whole arsenal if it means he doesn't have to look up and see the disappointed look he's sure is on Noct's face.

"See?" says Prompto. "I told you, dude. Guys like me aren't Crownsguard material."

"The hell're you talking about?" says Noct, and slides down onto the bench next to him, so close they're touching at the shoulders.

"That," says Prompto, with a vague gesture back toward the training hall. He's blushing again. He can feel his face slowly going red.

There's silence for a long moment, and Noct shifts. He's got that look fixed on him, Prompto's sure – that long, searching kind of look that always feels like he can see something hidden under Prompto's skin.

"Quit that," says Noct, at last.

"Quit what?" says Prompto. "Sucking so hard? Believe me, buddy, I would if I could."

"That," says Noct. "It's your second day. You're gonna make mistakes."

"In front of Cor the Immortal," says Prompto. "And you," he thinks, but doesn't add it.

"Cor's been training new recruits for years." Noct reaches over to nudge him with an elbow. "I guarantee, whatever dumb rookie slips you make, he's seen dumber."

"Great," says Prompto, burying his face in his hands. "Thanks."

But actually, when he thinks about it like that, it kind of helps. In the grand scheme of things, maybe he's a screw-up. But he probably won't be the _biggest_ screw-up.

Noct leans into him, and the weight's solid and warm against his shoulder. "Now quit worrying and let's hit the arcade," he says. "You still owe me a couple rounds at that new zombie shooting game."

Prompto's lips tug up into a grin. He stands and stretches, and he tells the worries running through his mind that they're going to have to sit in the back seat for a while. "You only want to play cause you think you're gonna beat my high score."

"I know I'm gonna beat your high score," says Noct, and unfolds himself from the bench with lazy grace.

Prompto flashes him a sidelong glance – falls into step as Noct heads toward the door. "I hit two million, dude. You got a long way to go."

"You're joking," says Noct.

Prompto grins wider. "Not a chance."

"Huh," says Noct. There's a weird inflection to it, kind of level, kind of thoughtful. He's got Prompto pinned with a searching sort of look again.

Prompto squirms. "What?"

"Nothing," says Noct, and starts walking again, with a shrug. "Just remembered something I wanted to talk to Cor about. That's all."


	23. Until the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> Promptis. "Stay with me, until the end." 
> 
> I'm so sorry, you guys.

When Prompto was very small, his mother used to read him stories at night.

Back when he was five or six, she worked from home for a while, and she was always around in the evenings. She'd tuck him under the covers, and she'd smooth his hair back, and she'd sit down on the edge of the bed.

"Once upon a time," she always started.

They're great stories. Prompto remembers most of them, even now.

There's always some lucky, kind-hearted idiot who stumbles his way to good fortune. There's always magic, the benevolent kind that makes sure everything turns out okay. There's always true love, there at the end of everything, conquering all.

This isn’t one of those stories.

He can't take his eyes off of Noct, seated there on the throne.

Noct breathes in, and out, and Prompto can't stop the impulsive flutter of hope that spears trough him every time he takes another rattling breath.

There's still time, Prompto's mind wants to scream. They still have elixirs. All they have to do is take the sword out and lie Noct flat – let the healing magic wash over him and sweep away the pain.

But they've been through twelve elixirs already. The magic in them is dead and gone, just like the magic in the Armiger. Whatever power the long-dead kings once had, it's missing now.

And here they are, gathered around their king. Here Prompto is, hand clasped around the cold fingers of his best friend.

He can't quite seem to stay in the here and now. His thoughts are tumbling over themselves to try and find a way to escape this room – falling backward to the night before, when he still believed there would be a happy ending.

Prompto thinks of soft touches in the dark of the night, Ignis' steady breathing and Gladio's thundering snores a chorus beside them. He thinks of Noct's dry lips and the rasp of a scruffy beard on his cheeks.

He thinks of Noct's voice, after – the barest hint of a whisper, breathed into Prompto's ear. "Stay with me, until the end?"

He thinks of his own reply, bolstered with residual pleasure and the giddy realization that Noct's fingers were threading gently through his hair: "Dude, you're not getting rid of me. You better believe I'm gonna be there every step of the way. We're gonna put Insomnia back together, you and me."

They're not going to put Insomnia back together.

Noct's not going to do anything else, ever again.

Noct breathes in, and out, and Prompto expects every shaky, indrawn breath to be the last.

He rubs his thumb along Noct's hand, back and forth, forth and back. He's aware of Ignis and Gladio there beside him. They're waiting, all three of them, but they aren't waiting for the dawn.

If Prompto could have a do-over, he'd start back in high school. He'd tell Noct that he was stupidly head-over-heels three years early, and buy them a little more time. He'd quit his part time job – to hell with the budget – and spend the extra hours lying around at Noct's place, doing nothing worthwhile.

 He wouldn't fall into that stupid trap in Gralea, and they'd have ten long years together, dark and difficult and exhausting, but with Noct by his side.

Noct breathes in, and out, and Prompto closes his eyes against the tears, warm and sticky on his cheeks.

He wants a happy ending.

He wants the kind of story his mother always used to tell him.

Noct breathes in.


	24. Waking the Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was for: "Oracle!Prompto, and Chocobros???"
> 
> Please check the end notes for art by the wonderful Kaciart. :D

Prompto leaves them in Lestallum without a word of explanation about where he's going.

All he'll say is, "Gimme like a day and a half, okay? I'll meet up with you guys afterward."

When Ignis fixes him with a disapproving look and asks, "Is this really the time?" Prompto grins a nervous grin, and won't meet his eyes.

"We need supplies anyway, right?" says Prompto. "You guys stock up. I'll be back before you know it."

"Think you're just trying to skip out on some hunts," says Gladio, arms folded, and Prompto laughs it off. It's the kind of laugh he used to give when Noct asked where his parents were, back in high school, before he changed the subject.

So Noct just says, "Two days. Call me if something's up."

Prompto does his best approximation of the Crownsguard salute. He says "Aye aye, captain," and takes off.

They wait more than two days. They wait five, and don't hear a word from Prompto.

They've exhausted the hunts in the area; they've replenished their curatives. When they play King's Knight in the evenings, their high scores are suffering for the lack of a fourth.

Noct's called Prompto's phone probably fifty times by now.

It's the morning of the sixth day when Ignis says, "We can't linger forever."

"No," says Noct. "No way. We're not leaving without him."

Gladio snorts and rolls his shoulders. He says, "Kid was a civilian till three weeks ago. Maybe he just couldn't hack it."

Noct tells Gladio exactly what he thinks of that, and Ignis has to break them apart before they say something they can't take back.

It's day nine before they talk Noct into leaving, and the only reason he agrees to go is because they're out of money for the hotel.

"Perhaps we'll find him en route," says Ignis, as Noct drives along behind their guide on the road to the Disc.

"Yeah," says Noct. "Maybe."

But Prompto hasn't returned any of fifty-seven phone calls, and Noct knows what that means. Prompto wasn't raised to join the Crownsguard like some of the nobility, but he's one of the most loyal people Noct's ever met. There's no way he'd ditch out on a responsibility like this, not with the stakes so high. There's no way he'd ditch out on _Noct_.

If Prompto's gone missing, something's wrong. He got mugged, or stabbed, or he's lying dead in a ditch somewhere. After they hit up Titan, they'll start a full-on search for him; there's no way they'll just run into him on the way to the Disc.

And they don't. They run into him after they get to the Disc.

Prompto's not on the side of the highway, or even in some rest area. He's down in the pit by Titan's feet, right leg at an ugly angle and hand clasped around a trident that Noct's seen portrayed in paintings once or twice.

"Uh," says Prompto. "Sorry I'm late."

 "What the hell?" says Gladio, and Noct wants to add something, but he's too busy staring.

"Kind of a long story," says Prompto. "But at least Titan's ready to talk?"

"Is that," says Noct, eyes still fixed on the trident in Prompto's hand. "Did you –?"

Prompto winces – seems to remember he's still holding onto the trident. He waves his hand and it disappears in a flash of blue light. "Surprise?"

Ignis adjusts his glasses. He clears his throat. He says, "Perhaps we can have this discussion after we've seen to Prompto's leg."

His voice is remarkably steady. His hand, when he holds out an elixir for Noct to take, doesn't shake at all.

Noct's fingers close around the glass of the bottle. He realizes he's still just staring – reminds himself that, whatever else is going on, his best friend is down there with a broken leg, waiting for help.

Nevermind that "down there" is at the feet of a god. Nevermind that Prompto apparently woke that god _up_.

Noct takes a breath in to steady himself. He lets it out slow. He says, "Okay. Incoming."

"Careful, dude," Prompto calls back up. "Tall dark and gravelly here's kind of cranky."

Noct feels the start of a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He shakes his head, and he throws his sword, and he feels himself slip into the spaces between spaces, the way he always does when he warps.

The world explodes into blue light, and when he appears again, Titan an imposing mountain above him, Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum, last of his line, goes to one knee before the Oracle.

And he says, "You're kind of an idiot, you know that?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looks at how WONDERFUL this is!!! :DDDD Noct down on one knee, all formal, and Prompto's lovely, complicated expression. :DDDDD
> 
> Thank you again, Kaciart!!! So, so, so, so much!!!!! <33333
> 
> [Kneeling before the Oracle](http://kaciart.tumblr.com/post/168162212683).


	25. In Which Prompto Develops Crushes Easily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> "Ooohhh could you do how they met PromNyx style!"
> 
> I hope I did Nyx justice! This was my first time writing him, and here is the part where I shame-facedly admit that I only watched Kingsglaive once and fell asleep during part of the final battle scene, h-haha. orz

It's Prompto's second time in the Citadel, and the first time doesn't count.

The first time, he was eight years old, one of a gaggle of kids in matching yellow hats, trailing behind their teacher to stare at the classical art that hangs on the walls, stately and beautiful.

Prompto remembers being intimidated by the paintings then. They're all of things bigger than he is – Astrals and prophecies and kings of the past. 

He's intimidated by them _now_ , but it's not because of the subject matter or even the artistic talent. It's because he recognizes this room. He knows it's closed to the public after tours stop for the day, and it's got to be past 9 pm.

"Noct?" says Prompto, in a hushed not-quite-whisper.

But nope – Noct's vanished, as though by magic. One second, Prompto was pausing to take a picture of an ancient marble bust, the next he looked up and his best friend was gone.

Suddenly, Prompto glimpses a prophecy of his own, some ominous portent of the not-so-distant future. He's going to wander the twisting hallways in increasing panic until he has a heart attack right here on the polished marble flooring.

"Noct?" says Prompto again, a little louder.

It's not Noct's voice that answers. It's a voice that's less mild – more self-assured. It says, "Hey, kid. You can't be here."

Prompto just about jumps out of his skin. He spins around, heart in his throat, and comes face to face with – a guard, he guesses? But he's pretty sure that's a kingsglaive uniform. It's not what the other Citadel guards were wearing on the way in, anyway.

"Um," says Prompto, and while his mouth forgets how to work, his eyes take in the view. 

The guy is gorgeous; there's no two ways about it. He's got a sculpted jaw dotted with stubble, and a uniform that hugs broad shoulders, and alert, intelligent eyes. He's also got _great_ lips, and Prompto stares so long that the guy clears his throat and says, "Hey. You listening? This wing closes at 7. You lost or something?"

"Uh," says Prompto, and scrambles for something to say that won't make him look like he's an idiot schoolkid.

Problem is, he _is_ an idiot schoolkid. 

And this guy. This guy has got to have more than ten years on him. He's every bit as cool as Prompto wants to be when he hits thirty. 

Now is not the time, he tells his raging hormones, to develop a random crush on some random guard in the middle of a random Citadel hallway. But that's the problem with hormones. They just don't listen.

"I, uh," says Prompto.

Before he can find something to say – before his brain can manage to put the words "I lost the prince," together in a way that doesn't sound like the world's worst scam – Noct's voice drifts in from the hall behind him.

"There you are," says Noct, and just the sound shuts up the panic ringing through him like alarm bells.

"Yeah," says Prompto, weakly. "Here I am."

The guard's eyes are on him. Noct's eyes are on him, too. 

"I was taking pictures," he manages, throat dry. "Sorry. I, uh. I should've said."

"Didn't know you were into art history," says Noct, smile wry. He's close enough to elbow Prompto companionably in the side, and he does. "We oughtta go to the museum sometime."

"Dude," says Prompto. "This place practically is a museum. The guy who made that statue bit it like 300 years ago."

The guard's smiling now, too, a little. It lightens up the grim and brooding vibe – makes him look about twenty times more approachable. His lips really are great, and Prompto's face feels hotter than the surface of the sun. He's staring again and can't seem to stop.

"Anyway," says Prompto, tearing his eyes away by sheer force of will. "You were saying something about a garden, right? Let's go check it out."

He seizes Noct's wrist in a desperate grip and hauls him off down the hallway, hell-bent on escaping before he makes an even bigger idiot of himself. Noct trails after, laughing the whole way, probably because knows exactly what it means when Prompto turns this particular shade of ripe tomato red.

Prompto's never going to hear the end of this. He'll be ninety, lying on his deathbed, and old man Noct will be by his side, telling their grandkids about that one time in the Citadel's west wing.

It takes Noct two full minutes to stop laughing, because he's kind of the worst best friend ever. 


	26. An Evening Visit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was:
> 
> "Luna+Prompto and dog pics."

It's 7 on a school night, and Prompto's standing at the kitchen sink, washing lettuce.

It's the glossy green kind that's not too bitter, and the tomatoes are pretty ripe today. He got a couple of mushrooms, too, the last time he went to the store, to try and make his salads more exciting.

When it's all shoved into a bowl, it's still not very inspiring.

But between the diet and the exercise, he's lost ten pounds already. He's nowhere near brave enough to talk to the prince again, but someday, he will be. 

He just has to keep it up. Lady Lunafreya's counting on him. Prince Noctis is counting on him.

With that thought to cheer him, Prompto chokes down the rest of the lettuce. Then he scoops up the bowl and goes to do the dishes: a drizzle of dish soap, three good scrubs with the sponge, a swipe with the towel, and the step stool to help him reach the cabinet shelf where the dishes go.

He's just stepping down again when the doorbell rings.

Prompto pauses, head cocked to one side as he runs through the list of who it might be. 

His parents aren't due back for two weeks; he's twelve years old now, practically an adult, and they've been trusting him on his own since he was nine. They could've had a change in schedule and forgot to say, but it's pretty unlikely that they're back early and also lost their keys.

It could be the mailman. He comes to the door directly, sometimes, to drop letters off and chat for a bit. Prompto likes the mailman; sometimes he asks what Prompto's been doing in school, and once Prompto showed him a test that he was particularly proud of. It's kind of late for mail, though.

It could be someone from the pizza shop down the street. Sometimes they get the address wrong and stop by with pizza for someone else. Last month, Prompto had to direct them over to the neighbors' house three times.

It's probably the last one. Prompto's getting ready to say that, yeah, apartment C is pretty hard to spot. It hides behind that hedge, there on the corner. 

Then he opens the door, and the people standing there are none of the people he expected them to be. There's a girl a few years older than he is, prim and proper and pretty in a pressed white dress. Behind her stands an older woman with long, thick black hair and a mysterious smile.

"Um," says Prompto. "Hi."  He's pretty sure he doesn't know them, but he wracks his memory anyway, trying to come up with a match. Does the girl go to his school? Maybe the lady is her mother, though they don't look very much alike. 

The girl presses her hands together. She wrings at one wrist, delicately, as though stricken with a sudden fit of uncertainty. "Prompto?" she says.

He doesn't want to be rude. He doesn't want to admit that he doesn't know her name in return. The more he thinks about it, the more he's sure that she doesn't go to his school, after all. He thinks he'd remember a girl like her. 

"That's me," says Prompto, awkwardly.

He doesn't know what to expect. It certainly isn't for the girl to break into a warm smile and reach out to clasp his hand in both of hers. "Oh, thank goodness. I was afraid we'd be searching the whole night. Please don't be cross that we've stopped by; I didn't know when I'd have another opportunity."

Her hands are very warm. Her face is very earnest.

Prompto says, "I'm sorry, I don't. Wh-who are you?"

"Oh!" says the girl. "Forgive me. You must be dreadfully confused." She smiles, kindly, and gives his hand a squeeze. "I'm Lunafreya. You rescued my dog."

It's not the sort of thing he ever expected: the Oracle, standing at his door, greeting him like an old friend and introducing herself as though the most important thing she's ever done is own a dog.

Prompto's staring. He thinks his eyes must be as big as dinner plates. He says, "You're – Y-you're –"

"I'm terribly sorry," says Lady Lunafreya. "I would have let you know I was coming, only it was a bit of a spur of the moment decision." She smiles, tentatively. "I just wanted to say thank you in person."

She's still got her hands clasped around his. His brain provides absolutely nothing decent by way of reply. The Oracle is standing in his doorway, and he's staring with his mouth open, gaping like a fish.

Say something, Prompto's brain screams, panicking. So Prompto says, "No! No, it's fine! Thank you for – I don't. I mean, come in!"

He's so quick to scuttle out of their way that he jerks his hand free, without thinking, and then kicks himself for being so rude.

Lady Lunafreya smiles like he's just executed a perfect courtly bow. She inclines her head, and she says, "I'd be delighted," and she steps inside.

The tall woman – her lady in waiting? Does the Oracle have ladies in waiting? – follows her in with stately, graceful steps. Prompto's hands are sweating as he closes up the door behind them.

"Please," says Prompto. "Come sit down."

He doesn't so much guide them to the kitchen as flutter about helplessly in the direction of the table and chairs, but when he indicates the spot, Lunafreya and the woman both take a seat.

"Would you like some," says Prompto, trying for hospitality, and then his brain turns over in his head, sputtering, offering nothing helpful.

He has tomatoes. He has lettuce. He has three bananas that have gone mostly brown. The thought of putting any of those things in front of Lady Lunafreya makes his insides squirm.

Tea, his mind insists desperately. You have tea!

"I have tea!" Prompto blurts.

Lady Lunafreya smiles again. She says, "That would be lovely."

Prompto goes into the kitchen. He puts a pot on the stove and runs tap water into it, and sets it to boil. He sticks some tea bags in three cups – discount breakfast tea – and hopes it's a kind Lady Lunafreya will like. 

While he stares desperately at the water, waiting for it to boil, Lady Lunafreya says, "Aren't your parents at home? I would be delighted to meet them."

Prompto turns around and gives her a smile that he hopes doesn't look as strained as it feels. "Sorry," he says. "They're out right now."

"Oh," says Lady Lunafreya, softly. Her hands are folded in her lap, but she's fidgeting with the fold on her skirt. "Was this a bad time?"

"No," says Prompto, a little too fast. "This was the best time. This was – I can't believe you're  _here_."

"I couldn't possibly have passed through the area and said nothing at all," says Lady Lunafreya. "Pryna owes you her life. She's very precious to me."

Prompto feels himself smiling – that helpless, enamored thing that creeps onto his face whenever he's confronted with something fluffy and four-legged. "Yeah, I bet. I only had her a couple days, and I kind of fell in love. I must've took three hundred pictures."

"You're a photographer?" says Lady Lunafreya, face lighting up. "That's splendid."

Prompto shuffles his feet. He says, "I'm not very good. But Tiny – Pryna. She's cute no matter how much I mess up the shot, you know?" He means to stop there. But his mouth, somehow, doesn't get the memo, and before he can stop it, it rushes on to add, "I could show you, if you want."

"I'd love to see," says Lady Lunafreya, and Prompto almost trips over his own feet on the way to his room to get the camera.

He sits down at the table with the Oracle and her lady-in-waiting. He passes around his second-hand camera, full of shots of Tiny in her little bed, and Tiny wet from the bath, and Tiny newly brushed, and Tiny eating dinner.

The boiling water, forgotten, evaporates from sitting on the stove for so long, and the burning smell makes Prompto yelp and run into the kitchen to add more water. This time, he stays and waits for it to boil. This time, he brings back tea, and Lady Lunafreya drinks it from the cracked teal mug that his father brought home from a trip to Altissia when Prompto was only five years old.

By the time Lady Lunafreya stands and thanks him for his hospitality, it's nearly 9 o'clock.

Prompto sees her to the door, and he holds it open. He says, "I'm so glad I got to meet you."

"I'm afraid I may not return to Lucis for quite a while," says Lady Lunafreya. "But if you ever visit Tenebrae, stop by and say hello. I'll make tea for you, next time."

"Yeah," says Prompto. "Okay. I'd like that."

She clasps his hand between both of hers again, and she gives it a squeeze. Then she turns and walks down the path from Prompto's house, lady in waiting trailing behind like a shadow. 

Prompto stands in the doorway, looking after them. He watches for a long time, until they turn the corner and disappear from view.


	27. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was: Promnis - 'You need to eat'

They just can't bring themselves to leave.

They've run out of supplies twice – fought their way out past piles of daemons – and returned to the chamber that houses the Crystal with enough rations to buy them a little more time.

They're making it work, in other words, because there's nothing else they can do. None of them are ready to admit that maybe Noct's not coming back.

So they're staying; Prompto gets it. There's not much other choice. And he wouldn't mind the waiting so much – only, there's nothing to do here.

Prompto's never been good at being idle, but this is a special kind of hell.

Nothing to do means no distractions, and no distractions means he spends a lot of time stuck inside his own head.

Prompto's thoughts are ugly, these days.

They trip and falter. They chase themselves in circles. They gutter to life, like some machine Cid can't quite get to work, before he forces them into silence again.

Images are trapped there, behind his eyelids: Iggy's face, still wet and raw with the fresh burn, while he tries to pretend he's okay. Gladio yelling against the backdrop of a train's interior, frustrated, the words pushing too hard.

Careful hands securing metal cuffs in place – returning again and again, with new ways to cause pain.

Noct, who walked right into a trap to try and keep him safe, swallowed up by the Crystal that was supposed to save them.

Prompto takes a breath in, and lets it out slow. He tries to derail the direction his mind's going, but it's damn hard.

He thinks about that cat from Galdin Quay, but remembering Noct's smile cuts like a razor. He thinks about those filters he always wanted to try out, but the shop in Insomnia that sold them is probably a greasy smear on the ground. He thinks about poker strategies, because dammit, he's always wanted to win _once_ – but Ignis can't see the cards anymore, and Gladio's never going to want to play anything again, and the fourth seat would always be empty, anyway.

Prompto takes another breath in, and when he lets it out this time, it's less steady. It shudders around the edges, and catches in his chest.

He closes his eyes, to try and fight down the stinging at the corners. Gladio's asleep – he can hear the snores, a low rumble that echoes in the high chamber – but Ignis has ears like a hawk, and the last thing he wants is for Iggy to hear him fall apart.

So of course, that's exactly when Ignis says, "It won't bring him back any quicker, you know."

"What?" says Prompto. He opens his eyes just in time to see Ignis sit beside him, close enough that their shoulders brush.

Ignis tips his head toward Prompto, as though he can see. The corner of his mouth slips up into the tired approximation of a smile. "You know what," says Ignis.

Prompto's quiet for a minute. Once, back when the only thing they had to worry about was day-to-day life in Insomnia, he admitted to Ignis that sometimes, when he's not careful, his thoughts get away from him.

He still remembers that night: one margarita too many, forehead leaning against Iggy's shoulder, the alcohol making his tongue loose. The details are a blur, scrubbed out with the drinks, but since then, Ignis has always had a knack for nudging Prompto out of his own head when he needs it.

"Yeah," says Prompto, eventually. "I guess I do."

There's silence for a long moment, after that – Ignis making room for Prompto to talk about it, if he decides he needs to.

But what's he going to say? Most of it, Iggy knows already. The rest – the parts spent tied down and screaming – he doesn't want to share.

So Prompto doesn't say anything – but after a minute, he leans his head against Ignis' shoulder, like that long-ago night. There's no alcohol to dull the embarrassment, this time, but it's just as comfortable as Prompto remembers.

Ignis starts at the contact, just briefly – then relaxes and reaches out a hand to pat at Prompto's own. There's a sort of hesitation to the touch, and Prompto wonders what that's all about, right up until Iggy's thumb explores the curve of his wrist.

"You need to eat," says Ignis, disapproving, and suddenly it's obvious exactly what he's picked up on.

Prompto's dropped weight, since that fall from the train – from trekking through the wilderness, and then from being locked up by some asshole who decided he had better things to do than feed his prisoners. Since then, Prompto's had bigger things to worry about than what to have for dinner. And besides, the more food they go through, the more often they have to leave Noct to go hunt up rations.

But the upshot is, his fingers are narrower than they used to be, and the wrist bone Iggy's touching stands out a bit too prominently under the skin.

"Yeah, well," says Prompto. "My stomach's been weird." It's true. It always twists itself up in knots, when his mind won't shut up about something.

"Nevertheless," says Ignis, in a tone that brooks no argument.

There's the faint rustle of fabric, and Prompto glances over to see gloved fingers fishing in the pack that contains their food stores.

"It's your choice. We have jerky, granola bars, or…" Ignis pauses. "Something in a can. What would you like?"

Prompto glances toward him. "You're not gonna let this go."

"Certainly not."

Prompto's quiet for a minute. Then he says, "Gimme the can," and sits himself up.

He regrets the choice almost instantly; with the can comes Ignis fumbling with the can-opener, sightless, normally sure hands clumsy and uncertain. But at last the lid's open, and he's passing a spoon Prompto's way.

It's vegetable soup, the kind with the little noodle letters floating in it. Prompto gives it a stir and spoons some into his mouth. "Thanks, Iggy," he mumbles, around the first bite.

His stomach's still weird when he's done; the soup sits heavy and uncertain in the pit of it, but Prompto feels a little better for having eaten.

He wipes the spoon clean and sticks it back in the pack – shoves the empty can in their makeshift trash bag. Then he leans his head back against Ignis' shoulder.

"Perhaps you ought to get some rest," says Ignis, after a beat of silence.

Prompto could argue that he's not tired, but he's always some low-burn level of tired, these days. He's  tired as soon as he wakes up.

He could argue that someone with working eyes ought to stay up and keep watch, but that'll only make Iggy upset. Besides – they barricaded the way in pretty well. They haven't had a daemon come charging down the hall yet.

So he just says, "You mind being a pillow?"

There's a soft huff beside him, what's almost a laugh. And Ignis says, "Not at all."


	28. A Nighttime Visitor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: Daemon!Prompto saving Ignis, Gladio and Noctis and then promptly adopting them because to him, they seem like fledglings in need of caring. He just couldn't leave them alone.

The cave’s dark as midnight; out beyond the glow of the flashlight pinned to his shirt, Noct can’t see anything.

All that falls within the lighted circle are Ignis and Gladio’s faces, tense and wary. Their weapons are still in their hands, and blood still smears Ignis’ forehead.

Noct strains his ears to try and catch some hint as to what’s out there, but all that reaches him is the sound of his own ragged breathing. 

“Hello?” he says.

The creature that nearly finished them lies dead on the floor at his feet, tattered clothing and broad-brimmed hat and curved sword slowly dissolving into a pool of murky black. 

Noct isn’t the one that killed it.

One second, that ayakashi was wiping the floor with them; the next, it was dead on the ground, oozing what passes for daemon blood in thick, dark streams.

“Is someone there?” says Noct.

But there’s still no answer, and much as he hates to leave this mystery unsolved, they can’t afford to stick around. They’re out of potions, out of elixirs, and all of them are battered and bleeding. It’s been a bad day.

“To hell with this place,” says Noct. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Advisable,” says Ignis, voice tight with pain. “We would all be well served by replenishing our supplies.”

Gladio hefts his sword again. “I’ll take point,” he says and pushes off down the hall, in the direction they came.

It’s a long way back. In the silence of dark, empty caverns, Noct keeps thinking he hears the sound of footsteps creeping behind them. Twice he turns, swinging his flashlight around, hoping to catch – something. But whatever it is, it’s outside the circle of the light.

When they step out from the crushing closeness of the cave and into the cool, moonlit night, Noct breathes a sigh of relief. 

Whatever it is, they’ve left it behind.

 

* * *

 

Whatever it is, they haven’t left it behind.

Noct hears it again the first night they camp, out toward the edge of the haven: a faint rustling and a low hiss, like steam escaping. In the morning, the proof is spread out on the ground: a garulet, dead and gutted, long gone cold. 

They stare at it for a long time, stunned into silence, before Ignis says, “Perhaps it’s time to press on.”

 

* * *

 

Three days later, Noct’s all but forgotten about their nighttime visitor.

They’re staying at Wiz’s, where there are friendly faces and affectionate birds, and whatever was in that cave is halfway across Duscae by now. With a few hunts under their belt, they have enough gil to restock their curatives. Nothing’s bleeding, or aching, or broken, and there’s an honest-to-gods roof over their heads. Things are looking up.

They play cards till stupid o'clock in the morning, and Noct’s dead asleep almost before his head touches the pillow.

But in the middle of the night, he drifts to groggy awareness again. It takes him a minute, to fight through the last clinging tendrils of sleep. He lies there, in the narrow cot that passes for a bed, wondering what woke him.

That’s when the sound reaches his ears: the frantic warble and squawk of frightened chocobos.

Ignis is sitting up in his sleeping bag, down by the caravan’s kitchen; Gladio’s stirring on the little half-couch crammed up against one wall. But Noct doesn’t wait for them; he’s on his feet already. His sword shimmers into place in his hand, and he yanks the door open, eyes scanning for danger.

He doesn’t even think to look down at the steps.

His first warning is when his foot comes down on something slick and shoots out from underneath him. There’s no time to catch himself – no time to warp. Noct just goes down, hard, smacking the back of his head against the metal of the steps.

He’s aware, before he even opens his eyes, of a briny smell – familiar, but out of place. Then he cracks his eyes and sees it.

Fish. A whole pile of fish, raw and glistening and all over Noct’s pajamas.

“What the hell,” he manages, and struggles to his feet.

Behind him, Ignis and Gladio are picking their way down among the fishy wreckage, now mostly squished by Noct’s fall.

They’ve all got a front-row view of the chocobos in their pens: not dead and gutted like the garulet, oh no. They’re still warbling and chattering, fluffed to approximately twice their normal size in excitement.

Because someone – or something – has dumped an entire sack of greens out on the ground at their feet.

 

* * *

 

They’re staying the night at the hotel at Taelpar when Noct goes to crack the window open. He’s unlatched it and started to push it up when Ignis says, “Perhaps we’d best exercise caution.”

Noct gives a dismissive little huff and props the window open the rest of the way, anyway. “It’s been a week and a half. I think we’re good.”

They idle away the hours, lounging on the beds or seated at the table: Noct on his phone, Gladio with his nose in a book, and Ignis jotting notes in a spiral-bound notepad.

It’s close to midnight when there’s a soft scraping at the window.

Noct goes very still. His eyes narrow, and he puts his phone down. Then he takes his feet, cautiously, and turns to face the sound. Beside him, Gladio’s sword is already in his hands. Ignis’ lips are pressed into a thin, white line.

The noise comes again.

Then something appears in the open window and tumbles inside, falling to the floor with the fleshy sound of impact.

It’s… an orange. The kind you find on trees all over the Duscae region. It sits there, innocuous and out of place.

They stare at it.

Then another orange tumbles from the window to join it. And a third. And a fourth.  
Soon there’s a small pile of oranges, on the hotel room floor, like the pile of fish on the caravan steps – or like the greens in the chocobo pen.

Before he can think it through, Noct’s on his feet, heading for the door. He wrenches it open and steps outside, circling around to the back of the hotel, where the window faces.

And there’s their visitor, standing by the window. In the cast-off glow from their table lamp, seeping out from the hotel room, Noct can see it’s a boy about his age. His hair’s a bird’s nest of blond tangles, and his skin is pale as a fish that lives down deep, past where the sunlight reaches. He’s wearing tatters of cloth – torn and filthy, shredded past recognition – and his face is smudged with dirt and riddled with scars.

As soon as Noct gets a good look at the hand holding the orange, he knows why. Most of the boy looks human, if pale and painfully underfed – but from the elbows, the skin begins to mottle grey. It’s onyx black by the time it reaches his wrist, and the hands are nightmare sculptures, hard and black and glossy, ending in jagged claws. The palms are the only part that don’t have sharp edges, and it’s the palm that the boy is using to lever another orange up toward the window.

“Hey,” says Noct, and the boy jumps as though he’s been struck – drops the orange and backs away, hissing like a cat. His teeth are as horrific as the hands, needle-sharp and way too many, and Noct notes with dawning horror the open wounds on the boy’s lips, glistening black with daemon blood.

When the boy steps back out of the light, his eyes catch and glint green, like a predator in the dark.

“Oh, Astrals,” says Ignis, from somewhere behind Noct – and that’s the only warning he gets before Gladio’s there, charging with sword drawn.

For an instant, Noct wonders what’s going to break first, the steel of the sword or the hard, dark stuff the boy’s hands are made of – but he never finds out. The boy abandons the orange and skitters off into the night.

 

* * *

 

Three nights later, the boy brings them ginger. The night after that, it’s shallots.

Ignis and Gladio have drawn-out philosophical debates as to whether their visitor is human, daemon, or some third option no one’s seen before.

The boy brings them potatoes, and sweet peppers, and wild onions, and Ignis starts cooking with them. “It seems a bit of a waste, just to leave them,” he says. “I imagine if it wanted to cause us harm, we’d have known by now.”

The food tastes fine. And the boy keeps coming – not every night, but at least one night in three. After that time at Taelpar, he doesn’t let himself be spotted, but in the morning, a tidy pile of some ingredient or another always shows that he’s been and gone.

 

* * *

 

Ardyn stays with them the night before they reach the Disc.

He parks his car by theirs, and he shares their caravan, and he smiles mysterious smiles that make Noct’s skin crawl.

In the morning, every one of his tires are slashed. His windshield is bashed in, and the upholstery is in tatters, and Noct thinks he knows, now, the kind of damage claws like that can do.

 

* * *

 

The gifts keep coming: always vegetables or fruit or spices, never meat or fish. Thinking back, Noct remembers their reaction to the first two offerings, and he’s sure he knows why.

“Hey,” says Noct one night, standing on the edge of the haven, calling into the darkness. “Are you out there?”

There’s no answer. Night insects hum in the long grass.

“No one’s gonna come at you with a sword again,” says Noct. “Why don’t you come talk to us?”

He waits there for ten long minutes, standing very still, but no answer comes.

 

* * *

 

They camp outside of Mt. Ravatogh, and Gladio wakes him early to pick flowers for Iris.

They search high and low, over miles of rocky ground. By the time they’re finished, Noct’s sweaty and sore, and neither of them has anything to show for it.

That night, their visitor brings them flowers.

He lays them carefully on the steps of the caravan, and though the stems have been chopped a bit roughly, there are enough to make up a full bouquet.


	29. One Hundred Percent Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt was: "Here, lay down on my lap." Promptis fluff?

“Here,” says Noct, and Prompto glances over, idly interested.

Noct’s stretched out on the couch, feet up on the coffee table. He looks cozy, in a tattered t-shirt and sweats, the lazy around-the-house look completed by the cup of coffee balanced in one hand and the disheveled strands of his hair.

He looks  _good_. He looks better than good – especially given that he just rolled out of bed like half an hour ago.

Prompto’s breath catches in his throat a little, at the sight of him.

They’re not dating, not really. They can’t be – Noct’s kind of a public figure. He’s the prince, and Noct doesn’t have to say anything for Prompto to know that the press would have a field day if they found out he was seeing some pleb.

But whatever this is between them, it involves needy kisses pressed up against the wall in the kitchen, and wandering hands in the booth of that dinosaur shooting game at the arcade, and Prompto staying over at Noct’s place four nights a week. Whatever this is between them, it’s got Prompto floaty and goofy and warm every time Noct glances his way with that smile.

“Huh?” says Prompto, absently.

“Here,” says Noct again. “Lay down on my lap.”

Prompto feels his face start to go hot, a slow creeping sensation that starts in his cheeks and burns outward. The way Noct says it, all casual affection, makes the butterflies in Prompto’s stomach feel more like a flock of sparrows.

“We just woke up, dude,” says Prompto. “Not like I need a nap.” But he’s already listening – setting his own coffee down and stretching out on the couch, so that Noct’s thigh is a warm, solid presence beneath him.

“Yeah, well,” says Noct. “Your hair’s kind of a mess. Thought it could use some help.”

Prompto squawks with mock-outrage – puffs himself up like an offended cat and goes to sit right back up again. “My hair is  _awesome_ ,” he says, but he doesn’t actually get very far in the sitting up department, because Noct’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him down.

“You look like a chocobo got caught in a tornado,” says Noct, voice warm with laughter, as his fingers slip into Prompto’s hair, gentle and exploratory. He strokes lightly along Prompto’s scalp, and then withdraws and does it again.

Prompto just about melts. Since their first few fumbling kisses, he’s learned a lot about his own body, but he never knew how good it feels to have someone pet his hair until this very second.

“Oh, man,” says Prompto, and lets his eyes slip closed. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that as long as you don’t stop.”

Noct snorts a laugh. “Deal.”

He keeps the deal. His hand keeps moving, slow and gentle, even as he leans down to kiss Prompto breathless. It’s a weird angle, and they bump teeth because of it; it tastes like bitter coffee and too-sweet cream, and it’s soft and frighteningly tender.

When Noct sits up again, breathing a little harder, Prompto watches the faint pink flush of his cheeks, and the star-bright gleam in his eyes, and the way he licks at his lips, self-conscious.

The sparrows in his stomach feel like a zu now, with great, sweeping, majestic wings, and not for the first time, Prompto feels like he’s in freefall. Like there’s something here way too big for him to stop or even slow. Like he might get crushed under the wheels of it, when it goes screaming down the track.

Noct’s hand wanders, idly – scratches softly at the base of his skull.

Prompto leans into the touch, and feels the smile creeping at his lips, and thinks he’s okay with that.


End file.
